RADISSON 

The  Voyageur 


A  VERSE  DRAMA  IN  FOUR  ACTS 


BY 

LILY  A.  LONG 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
1914 


COPYRIGHT,  1914, 

BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
Published  November,  1914 


THE    QUINN    A    BOOEN    CO. 
RAHWAY,    N.    J. 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

FOR  over  two  hundred  years  the  two  white  men 
who  first  pierced  the  wilderness  beyond  Lake  Supe 
rior  were  overlooked  by  historians, — their  names  for 
gotten,  their  exploit  unknown.  Manuscript  records 
of  unquestionable  authenticity  now  give  the  honor 
to  Pierre  Esprit  Radisson  and  his  brother-in-law,  the 
Sieur  des  Groseilliers.  They  were  trappers  and 
traders,  not  scientific  explorers,  and  they  were  ap 
parently  quite  careless  of  fame.  Such  discoveries  as 
were  incidental  to  their  avocation  were  all  in  the  day's 
work.  But  their  adventures  were  many  and  dramatic, 
and  Radisson's  journal  shows  that  he,  at  least,  was 
keenly  sensitive  to  the  romantic  aspects  of  their  work 
and  to  the  wonder  element  of  the  wilderness. 

There  is  no  historical  record  of  any  love  adven 
ture,  such  as  is  included  in  the  play,  but — Radisson 
was  twenty,  and  a  Frenchman.  The  other  incidents 
in  the  drama  follow  his  story  closely,  and  many  of 
the  speeches  are  merely  paraphrased  from  his 
journal. 

The  play  as  presented  is  arranged  for  reading,  but 
the  notes  at  the  back  make  it  available  for  amateur 
out-of-door  performance,  or  for  use  as  the  basis  of  an 
Indian  Pageant.  The  opening  poem,  "  The  Voy- 
ageurs,"  could  be  made  to  serve  as  a  prologue,  spoken 

iii 


O   1  * 

a  4 


iv  PREFATORY  NOTE 

by  a  voyageur;  and  after  the  last  curtain  has  fallen 
it  might  be  raised  for  a  moment  on  the  solitary  figure 
of  a  woman,  looking  toward  the  sunset,  who  recites 
the  closing  poem,  "  The  Passing  of  the  Indian." 

"  The  Feast  of  Friendship,"  which  is  introduced  as 
a  Pageant  following  Act  III,  gives  an  opportunity 
for  the  presentation  of  Indian  dances  and  games,  to 
any  extent  desired. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


PREFATORY  NOTE v 

PROLOG — "  The  Voyageurs ' '         .          .  .         ix 

THE  PLAY — "  Radisson :  The  Voyageur  "       .  .          i 

L' ENVOI — "The  Passing  of  the  Indian  "          .  .      105 

HISTORICAL  NOTE       .          .          .          .          .  .107 

DIRECTIONS  FOR  COSTUMING  AND  MOUNTING  .  1 1 1 

DIRECTIONS  FOR  PAGEANT    .          .          .          .  .115 


THE  VOYAGEURS 

They  were  a  gallant  band,  the  Voyageurs, — 
Adventurous  spirits,  tossing  life  and  death, 
Like  chance-flung  dice,  with  an  unfaltering  hand, 
To  find  the  western  sea  that  led  to  Ind, 
To  thread  the  rivers,  flowing  from  the  north, 
To  pierce  the  mystery  of  unknown  lands, 
To  find  the  fabled  gold  of  buried  kings, 
To  track  the  bear  and  bison  in  the  wild, 
To  trade  for  silky  pelts  a  queen  might  wear, 
To  hold  dumb  converse  with  the  woodland  men 
And  learn  the  master-craft  of  how  to  wrest 
Full   life,   bare-handed,    from   the   barren   wilds, — 
All  these  were  lures  to  lead  the  adventurer  on. 
Yet  more  than  all,  perhaps,  'twas  but  to  feel 
The  wildness  close  about  him,  shutting  out 
The  petty  strife  of  towns,  the  labor  dull 
Of  day  by  weary  day  while  time  shall  run 
That  marks  the  somber  safety  of  the  towns. 
Here  there  was  danger,  meet  to  match  his  might; 
Here  there  was  vastness,  equal  to  desire. 
The  night  sky  spread  a  tent  above  the  world, 
Murmurous  with  winds  that  blew  from  sea  to  sea. 
The  forests  held  the  memories  of  a  past 
Older  than  cities,  and  than  empires  more. 
Foremost  of  all,  the  gallant  Radisson, 

vii 


viii  THE  VOYAGEURS 

That  youth  adventurous  of  Gallic  blood, 

Who  knew  the  seven  oceans  of  the  world 

Before  the  beard  had  darkened  on  his  chin. 

And  with  him,  bound  in  brotherhood  of  love 

And  of  adventure,  came  Groseilliers, 

Sedate  and  prudent,  wise  to  trade  and  buy. 

For  them  the  mighty  Mississippi  made 

A  level  highway  to  the  wilderness, — 

And  to  the  temple  of  undying  fame. 

Youth  calls  to  youth.    The  land  and  they  were  young, 

And  every  morning  was  a  challenge  flung. 


RADISSON 


CHARACTERS 

PIERRE  ESPRIT  RADISSON,  a  young  Frenchman  of 
twenty,  gay,  debonair,  and  courageous. 

MEDARD  CHOUART,  SIEUR  DES  GROSEILLIERS.  RA- 
DISSON'S  brother-in-law.  A  trapper  and  Indian 
trader,  thirty -five  years  old. 

SON'DAQUA,  the  old  blind  chief  of  a  band  of  Hurons 
(Wendats),  who  have  been  driven  westward  by 
the  Iroquois,  and  have  found  a  temporary  asylum 
on  an  island  in  the  Mississippi  River. 

ANAHO'TAHA,  his  son,  and  later  the  chief. 

IHEE,  a  medicine-man. 

ONDA'TA,  an  old  herb  woman. 

O'WERA,  a  young  girl  of  the  Wendats,  IHEE'S 
daughter. 

Other  Indian  braves  and  squaws  of  the  Wendat  tribe. 

Runners. 

A  group  of  Ottawas. 

A  group  of  Sioux. 

A  group  of  Crees. 


ACT  I 

In  the  cool  morning  hour  of  a  June  day,  a  group 
of  Indian  women  have  come  down  to  the  river's  edge 
to  wash  their  garments,  while  others,  nearby,  are 
grinding  corn  in  stone  mortars.  The  place  is  Isle 
Pelee  (now  known  to  geographers  as  Prairie  Island) 
in  the  Upper  Mississippi  River.  The  year  is  1656. 
The  day  when  Father  Hennepin  shall  look  over  this 
region  with  the  eager  eyes  of  a  discoverer  and  claim  it 
for  French  Louis  and  for  God  is  still,  therefore,  a  quar 
ter  of  a  century  in  the  future;  and  even  the  explora 
tions  of  Joliet  and  Marquette,  somewhat  farther  down 
the  river,  are  but  seven  years  nearer.  Yet  now,  at  this 
moment,  two  Frenchmen  are  the  guests  of  these  island 
Indians,  and  have  been  such  for  a  year  past, — adven 
turers  too  careless  of  fame  to  publish  the  fact  that  they 
have  found  the  hidden  headwaters  of  the  greatest  river 
of  this  New  World.  Where  every  day  brims  with  dis 
coveries,  what  is  one  river  more  or  less?  Besides,  they 
are  trappers,  and  this  year  in  the  wilderness  beyond  the 
farthest  reach  of  their  rivals  in  the  trade  has  given 
them  a  store  of  beaver-skin  and  fox  that  will  be  worth 
a  fortune  in  Montreal, — if  only  their  too  loving  hosts 
of  the  winter  can  be  persuaded  to  let  them  go,  and 
to  provide  the  necessary  escort  through  the  hostile 
lands. 


4  RADISSON 

For  these  island  Indians  cling  to  their  chance-sent 
friends  with  the  dependence  of  lost  children.  They 
are  themselves  strangers  in  a  land  which  offers  little 
hospitality.  Of  the  Wendat  (Huron)  tribe,  they  long 
lived  at  peace  in  a  land  far  to  the  eastward,  near  the 
Georgian  Bay;  and  many  of  them  have  come  sufficiently 
into  contact  with  the  trappers,  and  the  black-robed 
priests  of  the  French  people  dwelling  near  the  Bitter 
Water,  to  learn  to  venerate  the  white  mans  religion 
and  to  use  his  guns  and  his  woven  cloth.  But  the 
Iroquois,  ambitious  and  conquering,  fell  upon  their 
quiet  villages  and  drove  them  out  toward  the  Western 
wilderness,  which  was  peopled  with  primitive  tribes 
who  had  never  even  heard  that  the  world  held  men 
whose  skin  was  white,  and  who  at  first  looked  upon 
the  homeless  Wendats  as  supernaturally  gifted  because 
they  brought  thunder-sticks  which  could  kill  at  a  dis 
tance.  Yet  only  at  first! 

But  in  spite  of  these  miraculous  weapons,  the  for 
lorn  Wendats  nearly  died  of  cold  and  hunger  during 
the  first  winter  on  that  Bald  Island  whereon  they  had 
found  asylum.  Then  wonderfully,  miraculously,  help 
came.  As  the  snow  was  melting  in  the  spring,  two 
Frenchmen,  with  an  escort  of  a  hundred  friendly  Ot- 
tawas,  came  to  the  Island  from  that  far,  forsaken  East. 
One,  the  older,  grave  and  wise,  put  the  mark  of  the 
white  mens  god  upon  the  children,  and,  though  forty 
of  them  died  thereafter,  their  parents  could  at  least 
cherish  the  assurance  that  the  mark  would  send  them 
by  a  straight  path  through  the  Ghost  Shadows  to  the 
Happy  Land.  Also  the  wise  man  had  set  them  to 


RADISSON  5 

planting  corn  against  the  needs  of  another  winter,  while 
the  younger  one  went  out  into  the  forest  with  their 
own  young  men  all  through  the  long  summer,  hunting 
and  trapping  with  the  boldest  and  wildest, — he  the 
boldest  and  wildest  of  all.  Therefore,  the  second  win 
ter  brought  no  terror,  for  there  was  good  shelter  from 
the  wind,  and  meat  and  corn  enough  to  make  all  the 
women  once  more  fat  and  handsome. 

So,  now  that  the  Moon  of  Strawberries  has  come 
again,  the  women  often  come  chattering  and  laughing 
down  to  the  river's  edge  to  wash  their  garments  and 
grind  the  corn  in  their  stone  mortars;  and  in  the 
comfort  and  good  cheer  of  the  present  they  almost 
forget  to  mourn  for  the  old  home  from  which  they 
fled. 

From  a  little  distance  an  Indian  girl,  about  jour- 
teen  years  old,  watches  the  women  while  she  swings 
idly  in  a  grapevine  swing.  This  is  OWERA,  the  daugh 
ter  of  IHEE,  the  medicine-man,  who  is  nicknamed  The 
Owl  for  his  mysterious  wisdom.  From  observation  of 
her  father's  craft,  OWERA  has  imbibed  a  certain  shrewd 
wisdom  of  her  own.  She  is  of  the  New  Generation, 
and  the  youthful  arrogance  which  comes  of  superior 
understanding  sometimes  breaks  out  in  mocking  and 
sometimes  melts  into  bewildered  yearning  Yet  out 
wardly  she  is  merely  the  demure  Indian  girl,  somewhat 
prettier,  somewhat  keener,  than  the  average.  Her  black 
hair,  parted  and  held  in  place  by  a  beaded  band,  hangs 
in  two  braids  over  her  breast.  Her  dress  of  soft,  white 
deerskin  is  richly  embroidered  and  beaded,  for  her  fa 
ther  is  a  man  of  importance.  His  tepee  is  just  beyond 


6  RADISSON 

OwERA,  at  the  extreme  right  of  a  semicircle  formed 
by  the  ranged  tepees  of  the  leading  men  of  the  tribe. 
The  Chief's  tepee  is  in  the  center;  and  at  the  extreme 
leftt  nearest  the  water,  is  the  tepee  belonging  to  the 
two  Frenchmen. 

The  thick-growing  willows  which  mask  the  river 's 
brink  are  parted  by  the  nose  of  a  canoe,  thrust  silently 
between  the  drooping  branches,  and  ONDATA,  the  old 
herb  woman,  who  has  spent  two  days  and  nights  on 
the  mainland  hunting  medicinal  plants,  steps  upon  the 
Island.  She  carries  a  bundle  of  her  trophies  upon  her 
shoulders.  She  is  old  and  wrinkled,  and  she  has  long 
since  given  over  the  vanity  of  adding  adornment  to  her 
dress,  which  consists  of  the  ordinary  coat,  skirt,  leg 
gings,  and  moccasins  of  deerskin;  but  her  face  is  marked 
with  the  dignity  that  comes  in  the  end  to  all  who  have 
lived  long  and  patiently,  and  with  the  strength  of  good 
will  that  belongs  to  the  healer,  whatever  his  race.  She 
pauses  to  look  at  the  women. 

ONDATA 
Ye  grind  as  for  a  feast. 

WOMEN 
A  feast  indeed. 
A  great  feast,  and  a  council. 

ONDATA 

What  the  cause? 


RADISSON  7 

WOMEN 

We  know  not.     We  are  women.     We  but  know 
A  feast  is  ordered.     We  must  grind  the  corn. 

ONDATA 

There  was  no  talk  of  feasting  two  days  back 
When  I  went  forth  to  gather  herbs  that  grow 
Within  the  forest.     Have  the  Iroquoits 
Pursued  us  hither?     Is  there  talk  of  war? 

WOMEN 

We  know  not.     We  are  women.     Ask  the  girl. 
Her  father  talks  to  her  as  though  she  were 
A  warrior  born. — Unseemly! — She  may  know. 

ONDATA 
Come  hither,  Owera. 

(OwERA  springs  from  her  swing  and  comes 
down  to  the  group  of  women.  A  gleam  of 
demure  mischief  under  her  modest  eyelids  be 
trays  her  understanding  of  the  summons.) 

ONDATA 

Thy  father  is 

Ihee,  the  Owl,  the  listener  in  the  night, 
Whose  wisdom  sways  the  council.    Thou  must  know 
The  purpose  of  this  summons.     Do  the  chiefs 
Call  the  Young  Men  to  take  the  Road  of  War? 
Must  we  so  soon  again  prepare  to  mourn? 


8  RADISSON 

OWERA 

The  war  drum  hath  not  sounded,  yet  the  Owl 
That  sees  at  night  hath  seen  the  bird  of  war. 
I,  Owera,  his  daughter,  speak  the  truth. 

ONDATA 
Who  sends  the  war  belt? 

OWERA 

Nay,  I  named  no  belt. 

The  pale-faced  strangers  who  have  dwelt  with  us 
While  ten  and  two  times  hath  the  moon  grown  thin, 
Would  take  the  backward  trail  unto  the  French 
Yet  would  not  go  alone.     They  ask  our  braves, 
The  Wendat  warriors  and  the  Ottawas, 
To  bear  them  company  upon  the  way 
Lest  they  encounter  bands  of  Iroquoits, 
The  Long  House  Dwellers,  enemies  alike 
Of  pale-face,  Erie,  Wendat,  Ottawa. 
The  council  is  to  say  if  they  shall  go. 

WOMEN 

She  talks  too  much.    Unseemly!     Can  she  know 
The  secret  talk  of  warriors? — Ask  again! 

ONDATA 

What  is  thy  father's  counsel?     For  I  know 
His  words  are  winged  with  wisdom,  and  they  go 
Like  truly  feathered  arrows  to  the  mark. 


RADISSON 

OWERA 

My  father  hath  great  wisdom  from  the  gods 
And  learns  their  will  in  dreams.     He  tells  me  so, 
And  I,  that  am  his  daughter,  tell  it  you. 
And  yet  it  is  no  easy  thing  to  know 
The  secret  meaning  of  a  medicine  dream 
When  chiefs  with  gifts  and  honors  to  bestow 
Would  twist  it  this  and  that  way,  to  their  will, 
And  glower  like  wolves  at  night-time  if  gainsaid. 
A  medicine-man  might  well  then  wish  to  be 
The  humblest  weakling  in  the  camp;  but,  no, 
He  must  make  medicine,  to  please  the  chiefs! 

WOMEN 
(Scandalized) 

She  mocks  the  wisdom  of  her  father. — Shame! 
He  should  have  set  her  grinding  corn  like  us. 

ONDATA 

Thou  speakest  somewhat  freely,  child;  yet  say 
Who  is  it  that  would  choose  to  stay  or  go  ? 

OWERA 

The  old  would  stay;  they  fear  the  Iroquoits. 
The  weak  would  stay;  they  fear  the  Iroquoits. 
The  cowards,  and  the  men  who  have  the  hearts 
Of  women  in  their  bosoms,  they  would  stay, 
In  fear  some  wandering  band  of  Iroquoits 


io  RADISSON 

May  hang  their  scalplocks  at  the  wigwam  door. 

But  I,  if  that  I  were  a  warrior  born, 

Or  had  a  warrior's  form  to  match  my  heart, 

That  beats  as  boldly  as  a  warrior's  should, 

I'd  go  with  Gooseberry  and  Radisson 

And  see  the  land  of  marvels  where  they  dwell. 

I  would  not  live  a  coward  for  my  scalp. 

WOMEN 

Shame,  shame! — She  talks  too  bold.     Unseemly  sound 
For  maidens  to  uplift  a  chiding  voice. 

ONDATA 

(Speaking  with  the  compassionate  wisdom   of 
the  old.) 

There  is  a  wisdom  of  the  warrior,  child, — 

To  track  the  foe,  to  make  no  cry  of  pain ; 

There  is  a  wisdom  of  the  medicine-man — 

To  know  by  dreams  and  prayers  the  Spirit's  will; 

And  women  have  a  wisdom  of  their  own, 

Unlike  the  warrior's  and  the  medicine-man's, 

But  binding  none  the  less  on  every  maid 

Who  would  uphold  the  honor  of  the  tribe. 

Her  wisdom  is  to  plant  and  grind  the  corn, 

To  raise  the  tepee  and  to  build  the  fire, 

To  cook  the  food  that  gives  her  husband  strength, 

And,  most  of  all,  to  bear  with  fortitude 

The  lot  of  woman.     That,  above  all  else. 


RADISSON  ii 

OWERA 

I  would  I  were  a  warrior,  for  my  strength 
Is  not  enough  to  meet  the  harder  task 
Of  being  woman. 

WOMEN 
Oh,  unseemly  words! 

OWERA 

In  other  lands  the  women  are  as  queens, 
And  men  do  serve  them  on  the  bended  knee. 

WOMEN 

The  girl  is  surely  mad.    The  white  men's  talk 

Hath  turned  her  head.     She  takes  their  jest  for  truth* 

It  always  is  the  woman's  lot  to  serve. 

OWERA 

(Eagerly) 
Yet  hear  ye  what  he  says.  .  .  . 

(She  sees  RADISSON  leave  his  tepee  and  glance 
toward  her,  and  she  breaks  off  hastily,  in  shy 
embarrassment.) 

Another  time! 

(ONDATA  passes  on  with  her  bundle  of  herbs 
and  disappears  behind  the  tepees.  The  other 
women  gather  up  their  mortars  and  clothes  and 
follow  her.) 


12  RADISSON 

(RADISSON,  baptized  PIERRE  ESPRIT,  is  a  gay, 
ardent,  impetuous  youth,  whose  high  spirits 
have  not  yet  been  tamed  by  any  of  the  experi 
ences  he  has  known.  A  rover  from  boyhood, 
he  looks  upon  this  Western  expedition  with  his 
brother-in-law,  the  SIEUR  DES  GROSEILLIERS, 
as  merely  an  extension  of  the  adventures  which 
have  already  made  him  acquainted  with  half 
the  ports  of  Europe,  and  have  carried  him,  in 
the  New  World,  through  a  year's  captivity 
among  the  Iroquois.  He  has  the  French  voy- 
ageur's  ease  in  establishing  human  relations 
with  native  tribes,  and  more  than  ordinary  au 
dacity  and  savoir-faire.  He  is  at  this  time 
twenty  years  old,  wild  with  enthusiasm  for  the 
wilderness^  for  which  he  has  the  appreciation  of 
a  poet  joined  with  the  possessive  pride  of  the 
discoverer.  His  dress  combines  the  practical 
features  of  the  woodsman's  garb  and  the  In 
dian's — buckskin  leggings  reaching  to  the  hip, 
belted  blouse,  a  gay  sash  and  pouch,  and 
moccasins.) 

RADISSON 
(Approaching  gayly) 

Ah,  little  wild  rose  of  the  wilderness, 
Hast  thou  a  smile  to-day  to  give  Pierre? 
Thine  eyes  are  veiled.     I  see  their  lashes  so, — 
Long  silken  lashes  on  a  golden  cheek! 
There  are  fine  ladies  in  the  land  I  know 


RADISSON  13 

Beyond  the  Bitter  Water,  who  would  give 

Their  chance  of  heaven    (though  that's  not  much,  i' 

faith,) 
To  have  such  lashes  veil  such  lustrous  eyes. 

OWERA 

"Ladees?"    Are  they  the  maidens  of  thy  tribe? 
Do  they  embroider  moccasins  for  thee? 

RADISSON 

Nay,  in  the  foolish  fashion  of  the  French, 
It  is  the  men  who  spend  their  time  and  skill 
To  plan  the  trappings  that  the  women  wear. 
How  wouldst  thou  like  that  fashion,  little  drudge? 

OWERA 

I  like  it  not.     Wouldst  thou  return  to  them, 
When  here  thou  art  the  lord  of  all  of  us? 

RADISSON 

I  must  return  if  I  would  sell  my  fui 

To  prove  my  sanity,  I  must  return, 

Though,  by  my  faith,  my  inclination  jumps 

Rather  with  thy  suggestion,  and  to  stay. 

But  if  I  go,  I  will  again  return. 

I  will  return  to  this  fair  wilderness 

That  draws  me  as  a  mistress  with  her  wiles, 

Her  cruel  gifts,  her  thorny  tenderness, 

— Which  is  beyond  thy  knowledge,  little  rose! 

Wilt  thou  forget  me  when  I  am  away? 


14  RADISSON 

OWERA 

Women  remember.     Only  men  forget. 

RADISSON 

Thou  art  no  woman,  but  a  child;  and  yet 
See  thou  remember.     If  I  come  again 
And  find  thou  hast  forgotten  Radisson, 
I'll  pluck  the  little  stars  from  out  the  sky 
And  turn  the  moon  to  water  in  my  wrath, 
The  which  will  make  a  rain  of  forty  days 
And  drown  the  tribe, — because  one  careless  maid 
Forgot  her  friend !    Behold,  this  string  of  beads 
Shall  help  thee  keep  a  memory  of  me. 

(He  gives  her  a  string  of  beads,  which  she  ac 
cepts  eagerly.  The  young  chief  of  the  Wen- 
dats,  ANAHOTAHA,  passes  near.  He  sees  the 
gift  and  scowls  darkly, — a  pantomime  not  lost 
upon  OWERA.) 

OWERA 

(With  shy  mischief  in  her  explanatory  glance) 

It  vexeth  him  that  thou  shouldst  give  me  beads. 
'Tis  not  the  custom  of  our  people. 

RADISSON 

True, 

But  I  am  of  another  race,  and  so 
I  give  thee  beads  as  gods  bestow  the  rain 


RADISSON  15 

Upon  the  woodland  flowers.    They,  for  thanks, 
Do  kiss  the  breeze, — and  faith,  I  like  the  word, — 

(He  attempts  to  kiss  her.  IHEE  and  GROSEIL- 
LIERS  come  out  from  the  Frenchman's  tepee, 
and  approach.) 

(!HEE, — the  Owl, — is  OWERA'S  father, — a 
politic  old  Indian,  whose  reputation  for  wis 
dom  is  not  entirely  dissociated  from  his  ability 
to  discern  which  way  the  wind  of  counsel  is 
going  to  blow.  If  he  had  been  born  under  other 
conditions,  he  would  have  been  another  Polonius. 
MEDARD  CHOUART,  the  Frenchman,  known 
from  his  little  estate  at  Three  Rivers,  near 
Montreal,  as  SIEUR  DES  GROSEILLIERS,  is  fif 
teen  years  older  than  the  young  brother-in-law 
who  is  his  chosen  companion,  and  who  is  to  be 
such  through  many  years  of  good  and  bad  for 
tune.  Lacking  RADISSON'S  imagination  and 
vision,  he  yet  has  the  practical  good  sense  re 
garding  the  needs  of  the  day  and  the  knowledge 
of  woodcraft  and  of  Indian  nature  that  insure 
success  for  their  expedition.  Just  now  he  is 
more  than  annoyed  at  RADISSON'S  unpolitic 
gallantry.) 

IHEE 

(Politically  ignoring  RADISSON'S  attitude,  he 
addresses  OWERA  sternly.) 

Get  thee  to  thine  own  tepee,  forward  girl. 
The  council  gathers.     Maids  may  not  be  seen. 


16  RADISSON 

(He  stalks  off  to  his  own  tepee,  and  OWERA 
follows  him  in  silence.) 

GROSEILLIERS 

Mad  fellow,  wouldst  thou  wreck  us  for  a  kiss? 
That  maid  is  pledged  to  Anahotaha, 
The  son  of  Sondaqua,  the  old  blind  chief. 
Our  friend  Ihee,  who  makes  the  medicine, 
Is  Owera's  father,  and  he  knows  her  worth 
To  raise  himself  to  power.    So  take  thy  beads, 
Thy  smiles  and  kisses,  to  another  mart, 
Or  thou  wilt  burn  our  tent  about  our  ears. 

RADISSON 
(Airily) 
Pooh,  pooh,  a  trifle!    Do  not  speak  of  it. 

GROSEILLIERS 
God's  faith,  and  who  will  speak  if  I  do  not? 

RADISSON 
Why,  none  at  all,  and  that  would  please  me  well. 

GROSEILLIERS 
Thy  wisdom  is  worn  thin.    It  needs  a  patch. 

RADISSON 

She  is  a  child,  an  infant.     Have  I  leave 
To  kiss  a  brown  pappoose,  if  I  so  will? 


RADISSON  17 

GROSEILLIERS 

Thou'lt  lack  the  will,  if  I  have  leave  to  judge, 
Until  the  brown  pappoose  hath  taken  on 
The  grace  of  maidenhood.    But  be  on  guard. 
Wild  seedlings  ripen  early.     Furthermore, 
The  word  may  rest  with  Anahotaha 
If  we  get  escort  to  Quebec  or  no. 
We're  prisoners,  though  our  warders  know  it  not. 
I  pray  they  may  not  guess  too  near  the  truth. 

RADISSON 

Good  brother,  I  was  once  a  prisoner, 

No  rhetoric,  but  fact,  as  well  thou  know'st, 

Among  the  Iroquoits.     I  made  escape. 

GROSEILLIERS 

And  so  thou  may'st  again,  if  thou  but  use 
Discretion  where  to  scatter  burning  looks, 
Nor  willful  fire  our  bridges  of  retreat. 

(During  the  above  colloquy  the  Wendat  braves 
have  been  gathering  in  the  background  and  have 
gradually  formed  in  a  semicircle,  leaving  an 
open  space  toward  the  front.  They  take  their 
places,  reclining  on  the  ground,  in  silence,  and 
are  pointedly  unobservant  of  the  two  white 
men.) 

The  chiefs  have  gathered  for  the  council  talk. 
Now  we,  with  fitting  state  and  dignity, 
Must  take  the  central  place  and  play  at  pomp, 


i8  RADISSON 

For  they  are  children  in  their  love  of  show 
And  dote  on  tinsel  as  a  courtier  doth. 
And  see  thou  second  me,  or  Marguerite, 
Thy  sister  and  my  wife,  may  languish  long 
For  tidings  of  her  brother  and  her  lord. 

RADISSON 

I'll  back  thee  up,  good  Medard,  never  fear. 
Thou'rt  spokesman,  as  the  elder,  but  I  stand 
Beside  thee,  be  the  need  for  word  or  blow. 
I'll  swear  that  black  is  white  and  night  is  day, 
That  we  are  little  gods,  and  have  a  horde 
Of  waiting  devil-slaves  to  do  our  will 
And  wreak  our  anger  on  our  enemies. 
Give  me  a  chance  and  prove  what  I  can  do. 

GROSEILLIERS 

But  keep  thy  madcap  jests  for  other  times. 
A  spark  to  powder,  and  our  cause  is  lost. 
Remember,  if  the  council  should  decree 
Their  young  men  may  not  go  to  see  the  French, 
We  and  our  hopes  alike  will  find  an  end, 
Since  we  alone  cannot  essay  the  wilds. 

RADISSON 
We  cannot?    That's  a  word  that  likes  me  not! 

GROSEILLIERS 

Oh,  we  can  go  and  die  beside  the  way, 
If  bleaching  bones  will  satisfy  thy  pride. 
I  choose  to  keep  my  flesh,  and  Marguerite. 


RADISSON  19 

RADISSON 

The  wilderness  is  bride  enough  for  me, — 
The  virgin  wilderness  no  man  hath  known. 

GROSEILLIERS 

A  cruel  mistress.     She  would  see  thee  die 
Without  compassion.     Come,  put  on  thy  gauds. 
We  must  impress  the  council  with  our  state. 

(  They  enter  their  tent.  As  they  withdraw,  the. 
women  curiously  draw  near  from  their  conceal 
ment  behind  the  tepees.  Whispering  together, 
they  peer  cautiously  after  the  Frenchmen.) 

WOMEN 

They  go  unto  their  tepee.  Is  it  truth 
That  they  have  little  devils  in  the  tent 
To  guard  their  guns  and  beads  and  tinkling  bells? 

OWERA 

Aye,  true  enough,  as  any  thief  may  learn. 

WOMEN 

And  is  it  true  they  talk  by  painted  signs, 
One  to  the  other,  when  they  are  apart? 

OWERA 

Aye,   true  enough.     The  black  robes  have  the  skill. 
'Tis  white  man's  medicine.    That  way  they  sena 


20  RADISSON 

Warnings  of  treachery,  and  secret  talk 

That  one  may  carry  in  the  open  hand 

Yet  hear  no  whisper.    But  the  white  men  hear. 

WOMEN 

(With  jealous  skepticism') 
How  dost  thou  know?     Canst  thou  hear  paper  talk? 

OWERA 

I  am  baptized.    The  black  robes  made  a  mark 
That  none  can  see,  with  water,  on  my  brow. 
That,  too,  is  magic.    That  is  how  I  know 
So  many  things  that  hidden  are  from  you. 

WOMEN 
It  is  not  fit  that  women  know  these  things. 

(Last  to  enter  the  council  ring  are  SONDAQUA, 
the  chief,  who  Is  blind,  and  ANAHOTAHA,  his 
son,  who  supports  him,  and  guides  him  to  the 
central  place.  ANAHOTAHA  takes  his  place  at 
his  father's  right,  with  IHEE  next  to  him. 
IHEE,  as  medicine-man,  carries  a  gourd  filled 
with  pebbles,  which  he  rattles  occasionally,  to 
fill  a  pause  or  point  applause.  He  wears  an 
owl's  head  and  wings  as  a  crest.  Space  Is  re 
served  at  SONDAQUA'S  left  for  the  two  French 
men.  The  women  have  disappeared  In  or  be 
hind  the  tepees,  though  their  presence  may  be 
guessed  from  the  occasional  flutter  of  a  fringed 


RADISSON  21 

garment.  Only  OWERA  is  in  full  sight.  She 
sits  on  the  ground  at  the  door  of  her  father's 
tepee,  stringing  rose-hips  for  beads,  but  shyly 
watchful  of  the  council. 

SONDAQUA  is  old  and  feeble,  with  the  de 
tached  point  of  view  of  a  man  whom  life  has 
forcibly  disengaged  from  personal  ambitions  and 
hopes.  He  wears  with  dignity  the  chiefs  robe, 
made  of  brilliant,  fluttering  feathers,  and  reach 
ing  from  his  neck  to  his  heels. 

ANAHOTAHA,  who  knows  that  the  responsi 
bilities  of  leadership  will  fall  upon  him  on  his 
father's  death,  carries  in  his  heart  a  smoldering 
anger  at  the  disasters  that  have  befallen  his 
people,  and  a  resentment,  which  is  ready  to 
burst  into  flame,  that  they  should  have  become 
beholden  to  the  white  strangers.  Added  to  this 
is  a  more  personal  bitterness  toward  RADISSON, 
whose  playful  gallantry  toward  OWERA  has 
aroused  his  anger.) 

(RADISSON  and  GROSEILLIERS  come  out  from 
their  tent  dressed  for  the  council.  GROSEIL 
LIERS  has  assumed  an  old  doublet  of  purple  vel 
vet  with  slashed  sleeves  showing  white  satin 
beneath.  Over  this  he  wears  a  necklace  of  small 
mirrors.  He  carries  a  valuable  belt  of  wam 
pum  in  his  hand.  RADISSON  wears  a  richly 
embroidered  cloak  over  his  other  garments  and 
has  bound  a  bright  cockade  against  his  head.) 


22  RADISSON 

GROSEILLIERS 

Delay  a  little.     Let  the  council  wait 

Our  due  appearance.    We  must  wait  for  none. 

RADISSON 

Medard,  this  is  a  game  that  kings  might  play. 

My  veins  run  fire,  a  flame  is  in  my  brain. 

To  look  abroad  on  this  fair  wilderness 

Where  never  white  man's  eye  hath  fallen  yet, 

To  hold  a  secret  in  thy  heart  and  mine, 

This  mighty  river  with  its  yellow  flood, 

These  forests  with  their  beauty  and  their  wealth, 

These  lakes  and  hills  and  prairies, — ours,  all  ours, — 

To  turn  these  wildmen  by  our  single  will, 

We  two  against  a  thousand, — this  is  life! 

In  truth,  I  half  accept  the  wildmen's  faith. 

I  feel  I  am  a  god,  as  they  believe. 

A  little  god,  no  doubt,  but  still  a  god! 

GROSEILLIERS 

A  godship  that  may  soon  be  put  to  proof. 

Our  wares,  as  well  thou  know'st,  have  all  been  swapped 

For  beavers — which  are  worth  their  weight  in  gold, 

But  like  the  gold  of  Midas,  may  be  yet 

Our  heavy  death,  since  we  are  poor  indeed, 

For  all  our  beavers,  if  we  have  no  iron 

To  pay  for  service.     We  have  scarce  a  knife 

Between  us. 


RADISSON  23 

RADISSON 

But  we  have  a  better  ware, — 
Fine,  dazzling,  gorgeously  bepainted  words! 
A  ware  to  buy  our  freedom!     For  they  love, 
These  hungry  savages,  a  glowing  speech 
Better  than  food.    Good  brother,  make  thy  talk 
Sound  like  a  war-drum,  flash  like  broken  glass. 
Thou'lt  carry  all  before  thee. 

GROSEILLIERS 

Aye,  I  go 

To  shoot  the  only  arrow  may  avail. 
Our  quiver's  empty,  if  this  last  do  fail. 

(They  take  their  places  with  impressive  dig 
nity  in  the  circle  at  the  left  of  CHIEF  SON- 
DAQUA.  The  pipe  of  ceremony  is  passed 
around  and  all  smoke  in  silence.  At  length 
GROSEILLIERS  rises.) 

GROSEILLIERS 

My  Brothers,  Elders  of  the  Tribe,  and  Chiefs, 

We  come  together  here  that  each  may  lift 

His  voice  in  counsel.     First  by  right  of  age 

And  wisdom  is  Old  Sondaqua,  the  chief. 

His  eyes  are  closed  to  outward  things,  yet  see 

The  secret  trails  that  run  in  each  man's  heart 

Beneath  the  leafy  cover  of  his  words. 

The  chain  of  friendship  that  the  white  men  brought 

Is  in  his  hand.     He  will  not  let  it  fall. 


24  RADISSON 

His  tongue  is  straight.     It  cannot  speak  a  lie. 
His  wisdom  is  renowned  to  all  the  tribes 
To  east  and  west,  and  even  to  the  French. 
We  wait  for  Sondaqua,  the  chief,  to  speak. 

RADISSON 
(Aside  to  GROSEILLIERS) 

Well  said.     They'll  swallow  flattery  so  thick 
'Twould  choke  a  poet  or  a  mandarin. 

SONDAQUA 
(Rising  with  difficulty) 

Old  Sondaqua  was  like  the  mighty  oak 

That  spreads  its  branches  for  a  pleasant  shade 

And  grips  the  hillside  with  its  sinewy  roots. 

He  was  a  shelter  to  his  friends.     But  now 

The  storm  hath  stripped  his  branches.    They  are  bare. 

The  worm  is  at  his  heart  and  he  must  die. 

His  ancient  home  is  lost  by  chance  of  war, 

His  young  men  have  been  slain,  his  warriors  ta'en. 

He  fled  by  night  through  unknown  forest  ways 

To  this  far  land  for  shelter.     Now,  oho! 

He  sees  the  shade  of  change  on  all  he  knows. 

The  ancient  ways  are  dead,  the  new  unlearned. 

The  pale-faced  stranger,  coming  from  afar, 

Hath  brought  us  gifts  of  iron,  thunder-sticks, 

And  burning  water  that  doth  make  us  mad. 

He  cast  these  at  our  feet.    We  took  them  up, 

And  by  our  ancient  custom  we  are  bound 


RADISSON  25 

To  do  his  will  whose  gifts  we  have  received. 

The  white  man's  path  will  lead  to  change  and  death. 

I  that  am  blind  see  far  along  the  way, 

And  it  is  black  with  sorrow,  red  with  war, — 

Yet  must  we  follow.    Let  the  white  man  speak. 

GROSEILLIERS 

My  brothers,  I  have  dwelt  with  you  in  peace. 

Ye  know  me  for  a  friend.    A  year  ago 

We  came  among  you  ere  the  snow  was  gone, 

To  trade  for  beavers,  and  we  found  you  here, 

New  set  on  this  fair  island,  without  corn. 

Did  I  desert  you  ?    Did  I  go  alone 

Back  to  the  French,  who  waited  my  return? 

Ye  know  I  stayed  a  twelvemonth,  helping  you 

To  raise  a  harvest,  while  my  brother  here 

Went  with  your  hunters,  finding  out  new  trails. 

Now  all  have  maize  in  plenty,  and  your  wives 

Are  joyful,  laying  by  a  winter's  store. 

This  I,  your  friend,  have  done  for  you,  my  friends. 

But  now  the  time  hath  come  when  I  must  go 

Back  to  my  people.     I  will  bear  them  word 

Of  you,  the  brothers  that  I  found  afar, 

With  whom  I  dwelt  in  love  a  winter  through. 

Who  of  my  brothers  will  go  down  with  me 

And  see  the  wonders  of  the  Frenchmen's  town, 

Eat  full,  drink  plenty,  carry  iron  home  ? 

I  lay  this  belt  of  wampum  at  your  feet, 

Who  takes  it  up  ?    Who  hath  the  heart  to  go 

With  me  and  with  my  brother  to  the  French? 


26  RADISSON 

RADISSON 

(Aside  to  GROSEILLIERS) 
Well  done.    Thou  hast  the  glories  of  that  round ! 

A  CHIEF 

Who  will  baptize  our  children,  if  ye  go, 

Or  show  the  Spirit  trail  that  leads  to  heaven? 

ANOTHER  CHIEF 

Delay  a  season  yet,  for  love  of  us. 

We  are  your  brothers.    We  would  have  you  stay. 

IHEE 
(Catching  the  sentiment  of  the  meeting) 

The  gods  have  shown  me  in  a  medicine-dream 
It  is  their  will  the  white  men  should  remain. 

ANAHOTAHA 
(Rising  with  a  commanding  gesture) 

My  brother  hides  his  heart  beneath  his  words 

As  turbid  waters  hide  a  treacherous  ford. 

He  asks  that  we  go  down  unto  the  French 

To  feast  and  gather  gifts.    He  doth  not  say 

Our  path  must  lie  where  bands  of  Iroquoits 

Are  watching  for  us  in  the  forest  shade, 

And  we  must  run  the  gauntlet  of  our  foes 

As  prisoners  run  between  two  hostile  lines 

That  strike  them  as  they  run,  and  strike,  and  strike. 


RADISSON  27 

The  Iroquoits  that  drove  us  from  our  land 

Are  waiting  for  us  in  the  hidden  ways, 

And  if  our  brother  asks  that  we  return 

He  is  no  Wendat,  but  an  Iroquoit, 

A  foe  at  heart,  with  words  that  cover  death. 

Let  him  take  back  his  greeting,  and  his  belt. 

(He  kicks  the  belt  across  the  field.  Other 
chiefs,  influenced  by  his  eloquence,  spring  up 
and  kick  GROSEILLIERS'  belt  back  and  forth  in 
scorn.) 

CHIEFS 
(In  a  tumult) 

He  is  an  Iroquoit  at  heart! — He  seeks 
To  trap  us  like  a  castor  in  a  trap! — 
The  Iroquoits  will  fall  on  us,  and  slay 
All  those  who  journey  down  unto  the  French. 

IHEE 

(Veering  with  the  tide  of  feeling) 
We  who  have  fled  may  nevermore  return. 
The  gods  have  shown  me  in  a  medicine-dream 
It  is  their  will  that  we  should  not  return. 

ANAHOTAHA 
It  is  my  will.     Ho,  ho !     It  is  my  will. 

GROSEILLIERS 
(Aside  to  RADISSON) 

Chief  Anahotaha  would  thwart  our  plan 
Because  of  anger.    Thank  thyself  for  that. 


28  RADISSON 

RADISSON 

He  would  be  wiser,  since  he  likes  me  not, 
To  send  me  hence,  and  let  the  Iroquoits 
Do  what  he  dare  not.    But  these  wildmen  have 
No  logic  as  to  cause  and  consequence! 
They  only  see  the  thing  before  their  eyes. 

GROSEILLIERS 
(Rising) 

My  brothers,  ye  have  shown  indignity 
To  me,  my  gift,  and  message;  and  the  gods 
That  guard  the  French  will  have  offense  at  you 
And  send  a  pestilence  to  kill  your  corn. 

SONDAQUA 

Sooner  or  late,  it  comes;  the  end  is  sure. 
The  white  man  will  possess  our  land,  and  we 
Will  be  as  dogs  that  slink  behind  the  lodge 
And  gnaw  a  bone  in  silence,  while  the  meat 
Is  his,  the  conqueror's.    We  must  do  his  will. 

ANAHOTAHA 

That  is  not  good  talk  for  the  tribe  to  hear. 
This  land  is  ours  and  no  one  here  may  come 
But  by  our  leave,  and  no  one  may  go  hence 
Save  by  our  letting.    We  are  Wendats!     Ho! 
We  are  the  People  of  the  Bear.    Shall  we 
Follow  like  women  when  a  stranger  calls? 
Who  lifts  that  belt  of  wampum  is  a  foe! 


RADISSON  29 

GROSEILLIERS 
(Aside  to  RADISSON) 
Speak  to  them,  thou,  if  thou  canst  turn  the  tide. 

RADISSON 
(Springing  up  and  throwing  off  his  gay  cloak.) 

There  is  no  man  among  you.    Cast  away 
Those  feathers  ye  are  wearing.     They  belong 
To  warriors  who  can  do  courageous  deeds, 
And  not  to  women,  weaklings,  such  as  you. 
Ye  men?    Ye  have  the  timid  hearts  of  squaws. 
Ye  hide  within  the  lodge,  ye  run  away, 
When  war-whoops  in  the  forest  sound  the  cry 
That  turneth  men  to  warriors  unafraid. 
Ye  have  no  right  to  weapons.    Ye  are  tame. 
The  skin  of  castor  is  a  war-club  fit 
To  beat  you  with,  O  cowards  that  ye  are! 

(He  snatches  the  beaver  robe  from  a  brave  and 
beats  him  about  the  shoulders  with  it,  and  then 
flings  it  down.) 

Stay  if  ye  will.     Like  women  dig  the  roots, 
And  make  the  fire  to  keep  you  snug  and  warm, 
And  hide  yourselves  when  Iroquoits  appear 
To  mock  you  and  to  carry  off  your  wives. 
For  me,  I  go  alone.    I  do  not  fear 
A  shadow  on  the  trail,  a  wild  bird's  cry; 
Aye,  and  I  do  not  fear  the  Iroquoits. 
I  am  a  man.    I  face  the  wilds  alone. 


30  RADISSON 

(He  flings  a  pack  upon  his  shoulder  and  makes 
as  though  he  would  go  off  alone.) 

INDIANS 
(In  a  tumult) 

He  shames  us  with  his  words. — My  heart  is  hot. — 
I,  too,  will  call  myself  a  man! — And  I! — And  I! — 
We  are  not  cowards.    We  will  lift  the  belt 
And  take  the  message  that  our  brother  gives ! 

(They  pick  up  the  belt  and  crowd  about  it, 
each  trying  now  to  touch  it.) 

IHEE 

(Bustling  to  the  front  and  waving  his  arms  to 
the  wigwams.) 

Ho,  women,  pack  the  bundles  for  your  men! 

They  join  Groseilliers  and  Radisson 

To  make  the  journey  to  the  Bitter  Sea. 

The  Wendat  men  are  braves,  as  all  may  know. 

RADISSON 

(Laughing  excitedly,  challenging  in  his  triumph) 
Then  come  with  Radisson!     The  bundles,  ho! 

(The  council  breaks  up  in  confusion  and  the 
women  come  hurriedly  out  with  their  arms  filled 
with  the  men's  belongings,  which  they  proceed 
to  bundle  up.  OWERA  alone  stands  motionless, 
her  eyes  fixed  on  RADISSON,  who  has  thrown 


RADISSON  31 

his  arm  over  GROSEILLIERS'  shoulder  and  gives 
no  thought  to  her.  The  sun,  which  has  been 
shining  radiantly,  passes  behind  a  cloud,  and  a 
slow-moving  shadow  sweeps  over  the  camp.) 

[CURTAIN] 


ACT  II 

Three  years  have  passed  since  RADISSON  and  GRO- 
SEILLIERS,  with  their  escort  of  young  braves,  left  the 
Wendat  Camp  on  Isle  Pelee.  In  the  meantime  the 
camp  has  shifted,  the  hostility  of  the  neighboring  Sioux 
driving  the  Wendats  northward.  It  is  now  October  of 
1659,  and  the  tribe  under  ANAHOTAHA,  the  new  chief, 
has  pitched  temporary  camp  on  the  shores  of  a  lake, 
to  be  known  in  subsequent  history  as  the  Lac  Courte 
Oreille. 

The  wild  geese  are  flying  southward  over  the  lake, 
and  though  the  mid-day  sun  is  warm  upon  the  October 
land,  little  gusts  of  wind  come  now  and  again  to  flat 
ten  the  long  yellow  grass  upon  the  shore  and  to  shake 
down  the  red  and  yellow  leaves  from  the  clump  of 
trees  in  the  low  land  to  the  left,  which  shelter  the  ill- 
prepared  wigwams  of  the  Wendats.  There  is  a  haze 
in  the  air  which  dims  the  sunlight  and  hangs  like  a 
portent  on  the  far  horizon. 

OWERA,  who  is  now  seventeen,  sits  solitary  on  a 
high  bank  overlooking  the  lake.  Though  she  is,  ac 
cording  to  the  standard  of  her  people,  a  woman  grown, 
the  waywardness  which  has  marked  her  from  child 
hood  has  saved  her  from  the  crushing  burdens  that  In 
dian  custom  lays  upon  women.  She  is  still  unmated, 
still  the  privileged  daughter  of  the  medicine-man,  of 

32 


RADISSON  33 

whom  no  tasks  may  be  exacted,  and  who  may  indulge 
to  the  full  her  taste  for  rich  garments. 

She  sits   idlef  looking   northward   over  the  wind- 
fretted  water t  and  sings. 

OWERA 

(Sings) 

Long  is  the  trail 

My  beloved  must  follow. 
The  lone  moon  that  watcheth 
Is  weary  with  waiting. 

Long  is  the  trail. 

It  leadeth  him  far 

Past  suntime  and  moontime, 
Past  springtime  and  summer, 
To  the  region  of  winter, 

It  leadeth  him  far. 

(While  she  sings,  ANAHOTAHA,  who  has  suc 
ceeded  to  the  chieftainship,  has  entered  noise 
lessly  behind  her.  He  has  assumed  the  more 
ceremonial  dress  that  goes  with  his  new  rank, 
and  whatever  emotions  of  doubt,  anxiety,  sor 
row,  or  love  may  rack  his  heart,  he  masks  them 
with  the  impassive  dignity  which  befits  a  chief. 
As  OWERA  finishes  her  song,  he  comes  forward 
and  announces  himself  impersonally,  without  a 
direct  look  at  her.) 


34  RADISSON 

ANAHOTAHA 

I,  Anahotaha  the  chief,  am  here. 
I,  chief  of  Wendats,  Anahotaha. 
My  wigwam  is  the  largest  and  the  best. 
My  furs  are  many,  and  my  wealth  is  great. 
I  have  a  spirit-stick,  a  medicine-gun; 
It  kills  by  magic  and  it  kills  afar. 
Behold  how  great  is  Anahotaha. 

OWERA 

(With  carefully  hidden  amusement) 
No  one  may  doubt,  since  he  hath  said  the  word! 

ANAHOTAHA 

My  beaver-skins  are  soft,  to  make  a  couch. 
I  bring  much  venison  to  fill  the  pot 
The  Frenchmen  left  me. — Come  thou  to  my  lodge! 

OWERA 

(Startled,  and  suddenly   cautious) 
I?    Nay,  I  have  a  task!    My  father  waits 
Till  I  return  with  gatherings  of  roots. 

ANAHOTAHA 

A  father  may  not  hold  a  maid  for  aye. 
Come  to  my  tepee. 

OWERA 

Nay,  my  mother  waits 
For  me  to  build  the  fire  and  cook  the  food. 


RADISSON  35 

ANAHOTAHA 

Come  to  my  tepee!    I  have  waited  long 
For  wife  to  make  my  lodge-fire  burn,  and  hang 
A  beaded  deerskin  up  against  the  wind. 
It  is  not  fitting  that  the  chief  should  dwell 
Alone,  with  none  to  cook  his  food  for  him, 
Or  bear  his  pack  on  trail. 

OWERA 

The  Chief  can  find 

A  score  of  maidens  who  will  not  delay 
To  seek  his  tepee.     Let  him  speak  to  them. 

ANAHOTAHA 

I  will  not  have  another  maid  to  wife, 
For  I  have  chosen  Owera  from  all 
The  laughing  maidens  at  the  virgin-dance. 
My  tepee  shall  be  empty  till  she  come. 

OWERA 
She  doth  not  choose  to  wed. 

ANAHOTAHA 

I  heard  her  sing 

Her  love  was  following  a  distant  trail. 
Is  there  another  who  hath  sought  her  eyes? 

OWERA 

No,  no.     No  other.     JTwas  an  idle  song, — 
A  dream  of  childhood  melting  into  song. 


36  RADISSON 

ANAHOTAHA 
No  more  than  that? 

OWERA 

No  more.     Indeed,  no  more. 

ANAHOTAHA 
A  dream  should  fly  away  when  morning  comes. 

OWERA 

It  rises  every  morning  in  the  mists 
That  melt  before  the  sunshine,  but  it  comes 
Back  in  the  night-time  by  a  trail  of  stars 
To  Owera's  pillow,  till  it  grows  to  song! 

ANAHOTAHA 

There  is  no  song  for  Anahotaha. 
The  heart  of  Anahotaha  is  weighed 
To  heaviness  with  care.     He  is  a  chief, 
He  walketh  proudly  when  the  people  see, 
And  yet  his  heart  is  heavy,  and  his  feet 
Are  set  in  ways  of  loneliness.     He  longs 
To  rest  his  sorrow  on  a  wroman's  breast, 
For  only  to  a  woman  may  a  brave 
Confess  his  fears.     She  only  may  uphold 
His  drooping  spirit  with  her  tender  hands. 
And  therefore  Anahotaha  hath  longed 
To  draw  the  maiden  Owera  to  him, 
To  bare  his  heart  to  her  in  wigwam  talk. 


RADISSON  37 

This  land  is  new  to  us,  and  hostile  bands 
Do  hedge  us  on  the  north  and  on  the  south. 
Last  night  strange  signals  burned  across  the  lake, — 
No  one  can  say  what  foes  surround  the  camp. 
Come  to  my  tepee  ere  the  battle  fall. 

OWERA 

(Excited  and  eager) 

Our  runners — hast  thou  sent  them  in  the  night 
To  spy  on  those  who  come?    They  may  be  friends, — 
Our  young  men  who  went  down  unto  the  French 
With  Radisson,  three  summers  in  the  past. — 
Nay,  it  may  be  he  comes  again  himself! 

(An  Indian  runner,  dressed  in  the  trim,  light 
costume  of  the  speed-maker,  comes  in  at  the 
opposite  side  and  races  across  toward  the  shel 
tered  camp.  As  he  passes  he  waves  his  hand 
to  ANAHOTAHA,  and  without  pausing  shouts 
his  message.) 

RUNNER 

Groseilliers  comes  again  and  Radisson! 
Across  the  lake  their  little  boats  are  come! 
Our  Radisson  returns!     He  comes  again! 

(Goes  out  running.) 

OWERA 

He  comes  again!     I  thought  he  would  forget! 
A  dream  hath  shown  to  him  the  trail  of  stars! 


38  RADISSON 

ANAHOTAHA 

What  is  their  coming  or  their  stay  to  us? 

They  are  another  people,  and  they  have 

Another  totem.     They  will  come  and  go 

Like  white  bears  from  the  north  that  lose  their  way 

And  wander  hither,  and  again  return. 

Come  to  my  tepee  ere  the  white  men  come. 

OWERA 
Nay,  I  must  see  them.     Do  not  hold  me  back. 

(!HEE,  the  medicine-man,  anxious  for  his  pro 
fessional  credit  and  quick  to  take  what  advan 
tage  may  be  open  to  him,  enters  hastily  from 
the  direction  of  the  camp,  where  he  has  en 
countered  the  Runner  and  learned  his  tidings.) 

IHEE 

I  saw  it  in  a  dream.    They  come  again. 

The  white  chiefs  come  again  with  many  gifts! 

(RADISSON  and  GROSEILLIERS,  with  an  escort 
of  Indians,  some  of  whom  are  carrying  loaded 
canoes  on  their  shoulders,  enter  from  the  direc 
tion  of  the  lake  landing. 

A  crowd  of  men  and  women  from  the  camp 
straggle  in  after  IHEE,  and  the  two  parties 
meet. 

The  two  Frenchmen  are  three  years  older 
than  when  we  saw  them  last,  and  RADISSON  has 
perhaps  a  trifle  more  of  leadership  and  self- 


RADISSON  39 

command,  but  otherwise  they  are  little  changed. 
They,  as  well  as  their  entire  party,  carry  the 
travel  signs  of  the  two-month  journey  by  lake 
and  land  which  has  brought  them  here  from 
Montreal.) 

RADISSON 
(Eagerly,  and  in  advance  of  his  party) 

Ihee,  old  fellow!     'Tis  thy  very  self, 

Still  prophesying  after  the  event! 

The  safest  sort  of  prophecy,  my  sage! 

Is  Owera  here?    My  faith!    My  dazzled  eyes! 

And  is  this  Owera,  my  little  girl 

Of.  three  years  back  ?    Who  gave  thee  leave  to  grow 

To  such  a  beauty,  once  my  back  was  turned  ? 

OWERA 
(Shyly) 
'Tis  Owera,  in  truth.    Behold  thy  beads. 

(She  draws  his  beads  from  her  bosom.) 

RADISSON 

Thou  shalt  be  decked  with  beads,  the  best   I  have, 
Because  thou'st  kept  the  old  ones  in  thy  breast 
And  me  in  memory.     Who  else  is  here? 
What,  all  our  ancient  friends  of  Isle  Pelee? 
We  had  not  thought  to  come  upon  you  here. 
Where  are  your  wigwams,  lodges?    Where  the  camp? 


40  RADISSON 

IHEE 
(Putting  himself  forward) 

Within  the  shelter  of  the  fringe  of  trees 

Between  the  hills,  hath  Anahotaha, 

Who  now  is  chief,  set  up  our  winter  camp. 

But  I,  I  have  no  kettle  in  my  lodge, 

And  I  have  ever  been  the  white  man's  friend. 

GROSEILLIERS 
(Advancing  with  formality  to  greet  the  chief) 

Chief  Anahotaha,  how  doth  it  come 
We  find  thee  and  thy  tribe  in  this  the  north? 
Have  ye  forsook  Isle  Pelee,  where  the  stream 
Held  fish  in  plenty,  and  the  maize  grew  high? 

ANAHOTAHA 

(Sullenly) 
We  came  away.    This  is  a  better  place. 

GROSEILLIERS 

This  is  a  barren  place.    The  winter  comes. 
Where  are  your  heaps  of  corn  for  winter  food? 

ANAHOTAHA 

Each  season's  food  the  Manitou  bestows. 
Ihee  will  make  a  fast  and  win  his  ear. 

GROSEILLIERS 
Can  Ihee's  fasting  fill  an  empty  pot? 


RADISSON  41 

IHEE 

Unless  the  Manitou  be  roused  to  wrath 
By  sin  within  the  tribe,  most  sure  it  can. 
If  answer  be  withheld,  it  is  no  fault 
Of  prayer  and  fasting,  but  a  certain  sign 
That  there  is  disobedience  in  the  tribe, 
And  secret  sin  is  hiding  in  some  heart. 

GROSEILLIERS 

Why  have  ye  left  Isle  Pelee,  where  I  set 

The  corn  that  ye  should  reap,  and  there  was  peace? 

ANAHOTAHA 

The  tribes  to  west,  beyond  the  Neutral  Ground, 

Like  Iroquoits,  are  very  fierce  in  fight. 

At  first  they  called  us  gods,  because  we  had 

Iron,  and  waukon-sticks  that  kill  far  off. 

We  thought  them  weaklings,  since  they  had  no  guns. 

Their  knives  were  stone,  sharp-splintered.    So  we  slew 

Their  hunters  in  the  forest.     We  were  braves. 

But  they,  they  followed  us,  and  fell  on  us, 

And  in  the  fight  the  Spirit  hid  his  face 

From  us,  his  children.    Why,  we  cannot  know. 

So  *led  we  from  the  island,  to  the  north. 

GROSEILLIERS 

Where  is  old  Sondaqua,  our  friend  the  chief? 
He  fathered  not  such  folly.     Is  he  dead? 


42  RADISSON 

ANAHOTAHA 

The  breath  departed  from  him,  so  we  laid 

His  body  in  a  cave  beneath  the  bluff 

Near  where  the  Sky-stream  joins  the  Mighty-stream. 

There  is  a  fountain  far  within  the  cave, 

And  Manitou,  the  Spirit,  there  is  heard 

In  endless  murmured  speech,  by  night  and  day. 

We  left  him  there.     And  I  am  now  the  chief. 

RADISSON 

(Breaking  in  to  relieve  the  situation,  which  he 
sees  is  becoming  strained.) 

Our  greetings  to  thee,  Chief!     We  bring  thee  gifts. 

We  are  thy  uncles, — thy  great-uncles,  even! 

Send  runners  through  the  camp  to  call  a  feast. 

I  and  my  brother  bid  you  all  to  come 

And  smoke  the  new  tobacco  that  we  bring, 

And  feast  on  venison  and  salted  fish. 

This  is  a  day  to  be  remembered  long, 

For  we  have  come  from  far  to  find  our  friends 

And  buy  your  skins  of  beaver  and  of  fox. 

Is  old  Ondata  here? 

(The  ancient  herb  woman  is  pushed  forward.) 

Bid  her  prepare 

A  mighty  feast  for  all,  and  we  will  give 
To  all  the  Wendat  braves  a  worthy  gift, 
Another  to  the  women,  that  they  may 
Rejoice  in  our  return.     The  children,  too. 
Bid  all  to  gather  here  before  the  feast, 


RADISSON  43 

And  let  us  show  our  friendship  by  our  gifts. 
Go,  you,  and  you,  and  bring  our  sledges  up. 

INDIANS 
(Laughing) 
Ho,  ho!    Our  uncles  have  returned!     Ho!     Ho! 

(They  scatter,  some  to  the  camp,  and  some  to 
the  landing.  The  sky,  which  has  been  somber, 
glows  with  a  threatening  red  as  the  sun  sinks 
into  the  October  haze,  and  a  sighing  wind 
shakes  the  trees.) 

GROSEILLIERS 

Here  is  a  state  of  things  to  cool  the  blood. 
The  sting  of  snow  already  in  the  air, 
And  here  no  harvest,  nothing  garnered  up. 
We'll  face  a  famine  when  the  ground  is  white. 

RADISSON 

They're  children,  heedless  children,  first  and  last. 
Thy  lore  of  husbandry  is  all  forgot. 
But  we  can  live  as  wildmen,  snaring  beasts, 
And  digging  roots,  and  sharing  forest  fare. 

GROSEILLIERS 

The  signs  portend  a  winter  of  the  worst. 
I  tell  thee,  'tis  a  famine  that  we  face. 


44  RADISSON 

RADISSON 

And  welcome,   Famine!     Welcome,  come  what  will 

That  cometh  from  the  honest  wilderness. 

Its  worst  is  better  than  the  city's  best, 

For  here  at  worst  there  is  no  governor, — 

No  Argenson,  to  thwart  us,  tie  our  hands. 

I'm  back  where  I  belong,  amid  mine  own. 

I  stretch  mine  arms  and  cry  aloud,  "  I'm  free! " 

GROSEILLIERS 

Famine  may  prove  a  jailer  with  the  best, 
And  lacks  not  skill  as  executioner. 

RADISSON 

But  Famine  hath  no  knavish  itching  palm. 
I'd  starve  with  joy  to  cozen  Argenson, — 
God's  curses  on  the  thief,  the  miscreant, 
The  coward,  traitor,  liar,  double  thief, — 

GROSEILLIERS 

Hold,  hold !    Why  waste  good  breath  in  cursing  him  ? 

He  could  not  keep  us  back,  for  all  his  laws. 

Keep  us,  free  trappers?    Dost  thou  not  recall 

How,  when  we  slipped  away  with  muffled  oars 

Between  the  dusk  and  daylight,  that  the  guard 

Who  should  have  given  alarm  did  call  to  us 

"  Good  speed,  and  quick  return !  "     And  all  the  way 

The  people  from  Three  Rivers  and  Quebec 

Came  to  the  water's  edge  to  see  us  pass 

And  cheer  us  with  "  The  saints  have  charge  of  you !  " 


RADISSON  45 

RADISSON 

They  are  good  people.     I  do  not  forget. 

Why,  all  Quebec  came  out  three  years  ago 

When  we  returned  alive  from  Isle  Pelee, 

And  towed  our  laden  boats  with  shout  and  cheer, 

The  while  the  guns  flung  out  a  boomed  salute 

As  we  were  kings  or  conquerors, — as  we  were. 

We  came  with  wealth  unguessed  that  we  had  won 

From  hostile  winter  at  our  mortal  risk. 

Never  before  had  castor-skins  been  seen 

So  fine  and  soft,  so  fit  for  royalty. 

We  poured  a  stream  of  wealth  upon  the  town. 

Was  that  a  deed  of  felony,  that  we 

Should  pay  a  fine,  or  languish  in  a  jail? 

GROSEILLIERS 
Why  cherish  memories  that  rouse  thine  ire? 

RADISSON 

Let  Argenson  forget  to  plunder  us, 
And  then  perchance  my  memory  may  cool. 
Here  we,  each  moment  of  the  chanceful  day, 
Do  place  our  lives  upon  a  lucky  throw 
And  count  it  triumph  if,  when  evening  fall, 
We  still  have  kept  this  coat  of  living  flesh. 
We  bear  a  peasant's  burden  on  our  back. 
We  stay  the  stomach's  craving  with  dry  fish, 
And  think  we  feast  if  berries  from  the  bush, 
A  meager  handful,  crown  our  lean  repast. 


46  RADISSON 

In  place  of  perfumed  baths,  we  break  our  way 
Through  leagues  of  snowdrifts;  sleep  upon  our  arms 
Lest  covetous  wildmen  brain  us  for  our  goods 
Or,  in  pursuit  of  knowledge,  cut  our  throats 
To  see  if  pale-face  blood  be  white  or  red. 
Is  ours  the  pain,  the  labor?    Aye  or  no? 

GROSEILLIERS 

(Seating  himself  wearily  on  a  pack) 
My  muscles  answer  for  me  that  it  is. 

RADISSON 

Yet  Argenson  would  have  a  quarter  part 

Of  all  our  furs,  to  give  us  leave  to  go 

And  make  our  battle  with  the  wilderness! 

'Twould  joy  my  heart  to  give  with  those  same  furs 

Their  proper  share  of  aches.    One  day  in  four 

Let  Argenson  be  sweated,  frozen,  starved, 

Hemmed  in  by  loneliness  and  hope  deferred, 

Hunted  and  driven.    Ha,  the  governor 

Would  have  some  right  in  that  case  to  exact 

His  due  proportion  of  the  castor-skins. 

GROSEILLIERS 

Our  Argenson  is  but  a  braided  thief, 
Using  his  office  here  m  far  Quebec 
To  set  up  carriages  in  Paris  soon, 
And  squeezing  us  until  we  spit  out  gold 
Because  he  hath  the  power.    I  grant  thee  that. 
Yet,  Pierre,  the  government 


RADISSON  47 

RADISSON 

The  government! 

What  hath  the  government  to  do  with  this, — 
This  waste  of  loneliness?     Here  are  no  roads, 
No  bridges,  armies,  cities,  churches,  schools, 
No  camps  or  barracks,  property  or  deeds, 
Or  other  instruments  of  government. 
Why  taxes,  then?    Why  licenses  to  trap, 
More  than  to  breathe  the  air,  or  eat  the  roots? 

GROSEILLIERS 

Thou   art   a   Frenchman.     Thou   wouldst   fight   for 

France 

Against  the  English,  bitter  as  thou  art, 
If  they  should  claim  this  land,  or  seek  thy  skill 
As  trapper,  for  some  British  company. 

RADISSON 

(Speaking,  perhaps,  with  some  prevision  of  that 
future  in  which  he  was  to  shift  his  impatient 
allegiance  from  France  to  England,  then  back 
to  France,  then  again  to  England,  dying  at  last 
a  pensioner  of  the  Hudson  Bay  Company.) 

A  thousand  devils,  but  I  would  not  so. 

WTiy  should  the  chance  that  I  was  born  in  France 

Hold  me  for  life  a  slave  to — Argenson? 

I  sailed  the  seas  beneath  a  dozen  flags 

Ere  I  was  twenty,  and  I  speak  the  tongues 


48  RADISSON 

Of  English,  Turkish,  Greek,  the  Spanish  Coast, 
As  readily  as  French  or  Ottawa. 
All  are  my  brothers  if  they  treat  me  well, 
But  none  my  master.    As  for  government, — 
I  snap  my  ringers  at  its  thievish  claims. 


GROSEILLIERS 

The  which  is  treason,  as  thou  knowest  well, 
And  thou  wouldst  e'en  be  quartered,  like  thy  furs, 
If  it  were  heard.     But  if  it  irks  thee  so 
To  pay  the  license,  let  us  quit  the  trade 
Of  trapper,  and  go  dwell  at  ease  at  home. 
Three  Rivers  will  support  a  pedagogue 
To  teach  the  languages,  and  scorn  of  kings, 
While  I — raise  gooseberries  on  my  estate! 

RADISSON 

Have  thou  thy  jest.    A  life  of  deadly  ease 
Would  be  a  living  tomb.     Forbid  it,  Heaven! 
This  is  the  land  I  love, — this  wilderness, 
White,  cold,  mysterious,  ever  beckoning  on, 
Ever  withholding  still  the  final  gift, 

GROSEILLIERS 

Thy  mistress*  eyebrow, — fringed  with  icicles! 
The  kiss  of  death  upon  her  frozen  lips! — 
I  know  thy  theme,  thou  rhapsodizing  swain. 
A  living  bride  would  more  deserve  thy  breath. 


RADISSON  49 

RADISSON 

(Who  has  been  brought  down  to  earth,  and 
promptly  finds  there  an  opportunity  for  mis 
chief.) 

But  Owera  is  pledged,  thou'st  cautioned  me! 

GROSEILLIERS 

That  maggot  in  thy  brain?    God  give  thee  sense! 
For  what  was  folly  once  were  madness  now. 
We  need  the  help  of  Anahotaha. 
We  need  a  winter's  lodging  in  his  camp, 

(He  breaks  off  abruptly  as  his  keen  eye  catches 
signs  of  unusual  disturbance  in  the  camp.) 

There's  tumult  yonder.    What  hath  now  betid? 

RADISSON 
They  gather  for  the  gifts. 

GROSEILLIERS 

Nay,  somewhat  more, 

For  strangers  are  in  parley  with  our  friends, 
And  Anahotaha  doth  stalk  before, 
With  all  the  native  chieftain's  dignity. 

RADISSON 

Their  steps  are  hereward  bent.     We  have  usurped 
The  audience  chamber  of  our  woodland  king. 


50  RADISSON 

GROSEILLIERS 

We  will  maintain  our  place.     It  well  may  be 
That  Anahotaha  conducts  them  here 
To  have  us  see  and  hear  the  argument. 

(ANAHOTAHA  enters,  followed  by  a  party  of 
miserable,  half-starved  strangers,  Ottawas,  and 
also  by  Wendats  from  the  camp.) 

ANAHOTAHA 

White  chief,  these  Ottawas  have  come  to  us 
To  offer  us  their  wares  and  merchandise. 
I  bade  them  speak  again  their  message  here, 
That  ye  may  hear,  and  all  may  share  alike. 

(The  Ottawas,  a  poverty-stricken  band,  show 
the  desperate  straits  into  which  the  wandering 
tribes  may  fall.  They  are  ragged,  haggard, 
and  gaunt,  though  they  still  maintain  the  dig 
nity  that  is  conferred  by  self-possession.  As 
their  chief  advances  to  speak,  a  member  of  the 
band  throws  down  a  pack  which  opens  and  dis 
plays  the  trumpery  "  merchandise  "  which  was 
the  chief  material  of  barter  between  the  whites 
and  Indians. 

A  keen  autumnal  wind  shakes  down  the 
leaves  of  the  trees  and  seems  to  fleer  mock 
ingly  the  state  of  the  forlorn  Indians.) 

OTTAWA  CHIEF 

O  brothers,  it  is  Hunger  that  doth  speak, 
Using  our  breath  to  fashion  forth  our  words. 


RADISSON  51 

Cur  band  is  hungry.     Winter  presseth  close. 
We  bring  our  knives  of  iron  that  we  bought 
With  many  castor-skins,  from  those  who  trade 
Among  the  white  men,  down  beside  the  sea. 
And  here  are  rings  and  awls  and  iron  pots, — 
Great  wealth,  a  heap,  and  much  to  be  desired. 
Yet  more  to  be  desired  is  life.     We  give 
All  that  we  have,  save  life,  to  keep  that  life. 
Take  what  ye  will,  and  give  us  of  your  corn. 

WENDATS 
(Examining  the  things  with  childish  greed) 

These  wares  are  good. — I  have  no  knife  like  this, — 
For  this  I  offer  half  my  bag  of  maize. — 
Tobacco  for  a  month  I  give  for  these! 

GROSEILLIERS 
(Starting  up) 

'Tis  madness !    All  will  starve,  if  they  divide 
Their  scanty  store  of  food. 

RADISSON 
(Checking  him) 

Thou  canst  not  teach 

Our  anxious  cares  to  them.     Eat  full  to-day, 
To-morrow  tighten  belts,  and  so,  in  time, 
Die  uncomplainingly, — that  is  their  way. 
We  vex  ourselves  with  much  philosophy, 
Yet  die  we,  none  the  less.     I  doubt  we  gain. 


52  RADISSON 

GROSEILLIERS 
(With  a  gesture  of  helplessness) 

The  prospect  holds  disaster.     Now  at  last 
The  wilderness  hath  caught  us  in  its  snare. 

(RADISSON'S  Indians  enter  from  lake  landing, 
bringing  in  his  loaded  sleds.) 

RUNNERS 

Come  all,  come  all,  come  all!     Groseilliers 

And  Radisson  do  call  you  to  a  feast 

And  offer  many  gifts.    Come  all !    Come  all ! 

OTTAWAS 
(In  high  content) 

Ugh !    It  is  well  that  we  have  come  to-day. 

Now  will  we  dwell  with  you  and  share  your  gifts. 

(Indians  gather  from  all  sides,  men,  women, 
and  children,  and  range  themselves  in  an  eager, 
laughing  crowd  before  the  Frenchmen. 

RADISSON    opens    the    pack,    and    GROSEIL 
LIERS,  with  ceremony,  begins  the  distribution.) 

GROSEILLIERS 

First  gift  be  to  the  men,  old  men  and  young. 
Tobacco  for  your  pipes,  that  ye  may  blow 
A  pleasant  smoke  to  Gitche  Manitou. 

(He  distributes  gifts  of  tobacco.) 


RADISSON  53 

MEN 

(In  high  good  humor) 
Ho,  ho,  ho!    Ho,  ho! 

RADISSON 

Next  gift  be  to  the  women ;  ribands  bright, 
To  deck  yourselves  withal,  and  needles  fine, 
Better  than  thorns  to  draw  a  sinew-thread. 

(He  gives  gifts  to  the  women.) 

THE  WOMEN 

(With  shrill  manifestations  of  delight) 
Ki-yi — Ki-yi — Ki-yi !     Ki-yi — Ki-yi ! 

ONE  WOMAN 
The  most  and  best  he  gave  to  Owera, 

RADISSON 

Where  are  the  children?     Here,  together  here! 
Shy  little  squirrels,  come  and  try  my  nuts! 

( Throws  gifts  of  bells  and  sugar  plums  among 
the  children  to  see  them  scramble.) 

Where's  Owera?     Come,  help  me,  Owera. 

Help  me  to  make  these  droll,  small  children  laugh. 


54  RADISSON 

WOMAN 
Ever  his  eyes  are  seeking  Owera. 

(ANAHOTAHA  has  been  standing  to  one  side 
with  folded  arms,  watching  the  scene  with  im 
passive  countenance.  Now  he  turns  gravely  to 
IHEE.) 

ANAHOTAHA 

He  calls  on  Owera.     I  like  it  not. 

Is  it  forbidden  that  we  slay  the  man, 

Or  send  him  forth  to  wander  otherwhere? 

IHEE 
He  hath  great  wealth.    'Twere  best  to  keep  him  here. 

ANAHOTAHA 
To  keep  him  here  how  long? 

IHEE 
(Significantly) 

Until  he  die. 

ANAHOTAHA 

(After  a  considering  pause) 
That  may  not  be  so  long. 

IHEE 
(Conciliating) 

'Twill  not  be  long. 


RADISSON  55 

RADISSON 

Are  they  not  like  to  small  brown  cubs  at  play? 
Here,  dance  for  me,  O  children!    Beat  the  drum, 
And  dance  a  dance  for  Pierre,  and  he  will  give 
This  gay  rosette  to  him  who  danceth  best! 

INDIANS 

(Shouting  with  laughter  over  the  antics  of  the 
children.) 

Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho!    Ki-yi! 

(ANAHOTAHA  moves  to  OWERA'S  side  and 
places  a  hand  on  her  arm,  as  if  to  draw  her 
apart.) 

ANAHOTAHA 
Come  to  my  tepee. 

OWERA 

Nay,  not  now,  not  now. 

ANAHOTAHA 
I  do  not  choose  to  wait. 

OWERA 
(Petulantly) 

I  will  not  go. 
Take  thou  another  maiden  to  thy  lodge. 


56  RADISSON 

INDIANS 

(Gathering    about   RADISSON    with   ingenuous 
enthusiasm) 

Thou  art  our  brother,  for  thine  eye  is  keen 
As  any  Wendat's  in  the  forest  ways, 
Thy  heart  is  open  like  the  tepee  door 
Where  all  may  come  and  sit  beside  the  fire. 
Be  thou  a  brother  by  the  ancient  bond 
Of  full  adoption  in  the  Wendat  Tribe. 

GROSEILLIERS 

(Aside) 
Be  guarded.    This  may  prove  an  irking  bond. 

RADISSON 
(Aside) 

Trust  me  to  hold  the  bond  or  tight  or  loose 
As  best  may  serve  us. 

(To  Indians.) 
Wendats  of  the  band 
Of  Anahotaha,  the  valorous  chief, — 
(Aside)  Who  sulks  like  old  Achilles  in  his  tent,—* 
I  take  the  hand  ye  offer.     I  will  be 
A  Wendat  of  the  Wendats,  bound  to  you, 
As  ye  to  me,  in  ties  of  brotherhood. 

INDIANS 

(Acclaiming  him) 
Ho,   ho,   ho,   ho,  ho! 


RADISSON  57 

RADISSON 

I  will  bestow  good  fortune  on  the  tribe. 
When  ye  go  forth  to  hunt  with  me,  the  wolves 
Will  fawn  upon  you,  like  your  flea-bit  dogs. 
The  fish  will  come  to  you  withouten  nets. 
The  lightning  will  not  strike  you.    It  will  know 
Ye  are  my  brothers. 

INDIANS 
Ho!    Ho!    Ho! 

GROSEILLIERS 

Doth  trouble  fatten  thee,  that  thou  must  go 
Aside  to  seek  it,  madcap?    Have  a  care. 

RADISSON 

The  little  devils  that  I  keep  in  leash 

To  do  my  will  shall  serve  my  brothers  now, 

And  put  our  secret  enemies  to  shame. 

INDIANS 

Ho,  ho,  ho !    Choose  thou  of  us 

One  who  shall  be  thy  father  in  the  tribe, 

And  in  whose  wigwam  thou  wilt  eat  and  sleep. 

RADISSON 

A  father,  too?    A  matter  asking  thought! 
By  Zeus  and  Thor  and  all  the  heathen  gods, 
I  choose  Ihee,  the  man  of  magic  craft ! 


58  RADISSON 

Ihee  shall  be  my  father,  and  his  wife 
My  venerable  mother;  and  perforce 
It  follows  I  have  gained  a  sister  so. 
Am  I  a  brother,  Owera,  to  thy  taste? 

OWERA 

My  brother  is  most  welcome  to  the  lodge, 
And  Owera  will  cook  his  venison. 

(ANAHOTAHA,  who  has  listened  to  the  unau 
thorized  overtures  of  his  people  with  a  dark 
ening  face,  now  throws  off  IHEE'S  restraining 
hand  and  steps  forward.) 

ANAHOTAHA 

I  am  the  chief,  the  son  of  Sondaqua. 

The  Wendats  wait  for  me  to  speak  the  word, 

And  Owera 

RADISSON 

My  sister! 

ANAHOTAHA 

Knows  my  will. 
'Tis  Anahotaha,  the  chief,  that  speaks. 

(The  tension  of  the  situation  is  broken  by  the 
opportune  appearance  on  the  height  above  the 
camp  of  old  Ondata,  the  herb  woman,  who  was 
sent  to  prepare  the  feast.) 


RADISSON  59 

ONDATA 
The  feast  is  ready. 

GROSEILLIERS 

Serve  it  to  the  camp. 

(This  announcement  wipes  out  all  other  inter 
est  f  and  the  Indians  rush  for  the  camp,  even 
ANAHOTAHA  following  with  dignified  delib 
eration.  The  two  Frenchmen  are  left  alone, 
looking  after  them.  All  at  once  the  sky  dark 
ens,  heralding  an  approaching  storm,  and  a  sud 
den,  keen  wind  sweeps  in  from  the  lake.) 

GROSEILLIERS 

A  feast  and  then  the  famine.     Sauve  qui  pent! 
I  would  the  spring  were  here,  the  winter  past. 

RADISSON 
{With  a  gayety  which  recognizes  the  hazard 

srn/J  ornp<:  tn  -meet  it.\ 


and  goes  to  meet  it.) 


Oh,  spring  will  keep  the  rendezvous,  no  fear. 
The  future  hath  a  place  reserved  for  us. 
Shall  paltry  Famine  check  our  destined  course, 
Or  winter  hinder  us,  whom  Fate  attends? 
The  stars  fight  for  us.     Winter,  get  thee  gone! 
Have  at  thee,  Famine!     Ha,  a  Radisson! 


60  RADISSON 

(As  he  gayly  strikes  the  attitude  of  a  fencer, 
the  longj  wailing  cry  of  the  loon  comes  shiv- 
eringly  over  the  water.) 

[CURTAIN] 


ACT  III 

//  is  the  middle  of  March,  in  the  following  year. 
A  terrible  famine,  foreseen  by  GROSEILLIERS,  has  car 
ried  off  half  of  the  tribe,  as  well  as  the  starveling 
Ottawas  who  came  to  beg  succor.  The  camp  of  the 
remainder  is  now  located  at  a  small  lake, — henceforth 
to  be  known  as  Knife  Lake,  from  RADISSON'S  gift  of 
knives  to  the  visiting  Sioux,  who  likewise  commemo 
rate  the  event  by  taking  the  name  of  Isanti  (i.e.,  Knife) 
Sioux. 

It  is  the  chill  hour  of  dawn.  The  stars  are  paling 
in  the  cold  sky,  but  though  light  is  dawning  it  is  with 
out  warmth.  A  group  of  Indian  women,  the  entire 
figure  shrouded  in  a  blanket  or  robe,  are  crouched  on 
the  ground  under  the  trees,  wailing  aloud  for  those 
who  have  died,  and  whose  decorations  and  personal 
belongings  are  hung  upon  the  trees  in  sacrifice  and  for 
memory.  Among  the  women  is  OwERA. 

The  bare  trees  of  the  mourning  grove  close  about 
the  scene,  but  in  the  foreground  is  an  open  space. 

RADISSON,  haggard  and  gaunt,  but  retaining  his  old 
dauntlessness  of  bearing,  enters  and  stands  unnoticed 
while  the  women  sing  their  Song  of  Wailing. 

WOMEN 
Ai,  ai,  ai! 

To  the  land  of  shadows  have  they  fled  away, 
61 


62  RADISSON 

Those  we  loved,  our  brothers, 
Those  who  gave  us  counsel, 
Those  who  hunted  for  us, 

Ai,  ai,  ai! 

Ai,  ai,  ai! 

To  the  land  of  shadows  have  they  fled  away, 
They,  the  little  children, 
Tender  little  weaklings. 
All  our  joy  hath  followed. 

Ai,  ai,  ai! 

Ai,  ai,  ai! 

From  the  cold  winter  have  they  fled  away, 
From  the  pain  of  hunger, 
From  the  woe  of  weeping 
To  the  land  of  shadows. 

Ai,  ai,  ai! 

RADISSON 
(Coming  forward  and  speaking  with  grave  authority) 

Let  cease  your  wailing.    Those  who  fled  away 
Have  found  the  end  of  sorrow.     Peace  to  them. 
But  we  who  still  remain  upon  the  earth 
Have  tasks  to  do,  and  so  we  may  not  weep. 
The  sap  that  shrank  away  to  hide  in  roots 
Is  surging  upward.    Soon  the  trees  will  leaf, 
And  berries  grow,  and  fish  begin  to  leap. 
The  famine-time  hath  passed ;  the  mourning  time 
For  those  that  died  hath  likewise  passed ;  and  now 


RADISSON  63 

The  nations  gather  for  a  Friendship  Feast. 
Go  to  your  tasks,  O  Women!    Hide  your  grief. 

(With  the  meek  submissiveness  of  the  Indian 
women,  they  muffle  their  heads  in  their  blan 
kets  and  slip  noiselessly  away  among  the  trees, 
— all  but  OWERA,  who  remains  crouching  on 
the  ground.) 

RADISSON 

Come,  Owera,  the  time  for  grief  is  past. 
Lift  up  thy  head,  and  smile. 

OWERA 

Can  Owera  lift 

Ever  again  her  head,  or  ever  smile, 
She  who  hath  brought  a  curse  upon  her  tribe? 

RADISSON 
(Smiling) 

And  hast  thou  brought  a  curse?    Here's  mighty  news! 
This  maiden  Owera,  whom  I  can  raise 
Thus,  with  a  touch,  she  is  so  very  thin 
From  lack  of  food,  is  strong  to  bring  a  curse 
Upon  her  tribe!     Then  tell  me,  wicked  one, 
What  is  it  thou  hast  done,  to  now  repent? 

OWERA 

(With  drooping  head) 
I  brought  the  famine.     Thence  came  many  deaths. 


64  RADISSON 

RADISSON 

Methought  the  famine  came  from  lack  of  food, 
Because  the  snow  was  deeper  on  the  earth 
Than  to  mine  eyebrows,  and  it  filled  the  air 
Until  the  sun  was  darkened  with  the  fog; 
Because  the  wind  had  driven  off  the  beasts; 
And  there  had  been  no  harvest.     Was't  not  so? 

OWERA 

(Accepting  and  echoing  IHEE'S  explanation  of 
the  failure  of  his  medicine-making) 

Ah,  no,  the  famine  was  a  punishment 

Because  of  sin.     I  brought  it  on  the  tribe 

Because  of  willfulness.     The  Manitou, 

Who  looked  within  my  heart,  was  much  displeased. 

RADISSON 

Thy  tender  little  heart!     I've  seen  thee  give 
Thy  meager  share  of  food  to  ease  the  cry 
Of  dying  children,  till  I  wept  to  see. 
What  is  the  hidden  evil  in  thy  heart? 

OWERA 
I  would  not  wed  with  Anahotaha. 

RADISSON 
Oh,  ho!     I  see.    Was  that  a  grievous  sin? 


RADISSON  65 

OWERA 

It  is  a  sin  a  maid  should  not  obey 
Her  father's  wishes  and  the  chief's  command. 
So  long  ago  I  have  forgot  the  time, 
It  was  agreed  between  the  Owl,  Ihee, 
And  Sondaqua,  the  chief,  that  we  must  wed 
When  Sondaqua  should  die,  and  that  his  son 
Receive  the  Sachem's  robe  and  lead  the  band. 
I  knew  it  was  decreed.     And  yet — and  yet 
I  held  myself  apart.     In  willfulness. 

RADISSON 

(Watching  her  under  his  eyelids) 
Was  Anahotaha  unpleasing,  then? 

OWERA 

(In  simple  honesty) 

Nay,  he  is  brave.    And  once  he  slew  a  bear 
That  sought  to  drag  me  from  the  lodge  at  night. 

RADISSON 

Would  I  had  been  there!     That  I  envy  him. 

Why,  then,  so  cold?     Wouldst  thou  remain  unwed? 

OWERA 

I  dreamed  of  other  ways.     The  black  robes  came 
When  I  was  small,  and  talked  of  wondrous  things, — 
Of  prayers  and  dress  and  modesty,  and  rings 


66  RADISSON 

To  wear  upon  the  finger,  and  of  heaven. 

Their  talk  was  wonderful  as  any  tale 

My  Grandam  told.    But  this,  they  said  was  true. 

I  know  not.    But  they  marked  me  on  the  brow 

With  holy  water.     Then  my  people  fled 

Before  the  Iroquoits,  and  hid  themselves 

In  this  far  land,  where  black  robes  never  come. 

And  then — and  then — thou  cam'st. 

RADISSON 

I  came. — And  then? 

OWERA 

Thy  tales  were  like  the  tales  the  black  robes  told 
For  wonder,  but  more  beautiful  and  strange. 
The  marvel  hurt  me,  here.    I  longed  to  go 
To  see  thy  world, — to  be  a  part  of  it. 
My  heart  was  full  of  dreams,  as  evening  sky 
Is  full  of  rosy  light.    But  it  is  naught. 
The  sunset  fades,  for  it  is  made  of  dreams, 
And  leaves  an  empty  sky  to  watch  our  sleep. 

RADISSON 

Even  here,  thou  child  of  nature!    Even  here! 
The  longing  of  the  earth-bound  for  the  sky! 

(The  Eastern  sky,  which  has  been  growing 
faintly  bright,  now  breaks  into  white  light  as 
the  sun  rises  behind  the  trees.) 


RADISSON  67 

OWERA 

And  so,  when  Anahotaha  would  woo, 
I  thought  of  thee,  and  held  myself  apart. 

RADISSON 
My  Owera!    For  me?    Was  it  for  me? 

OWERA 

The  others  thought  thou  wert  a  god,  but  I 
Who  shared  my  father's  counsels  as  a  child, 
I  knew  thee  for  a  man  of  other  race. 
I  hid  from  Anahotaha.     A  sin! 

RADISSON 

No  sin,  but  love!     Sweet  child,  thy  heart  is  clear 
As  mountain  streamlet,  showing  sand  of  gold 
Beneath  the  ripples.    Thou  hast  shown  me  love! 
And  I  will  claim  thee — take  thee — hold  thee! 
Come  to  me! 

OWERA 

(Drawing  back) 
But — Anahotaha?     It  were  a  sin! 

RADISSON 
He?     Nay,  he  will  forget. 


68  RADISSON 

OWERA 

And  thou  wilt  not? 

I  saw,  in  other  days,  how  white  men  came 
And  took  them  wives,  and  dwelt  a  little  time, 
And  then  departed  gayly.     But  the  wives 
Were  never  gay  again.     The  black  robes  said 
It  was  a  sin  to  wed  without  a  ring. 
Their  children  were  burnt  sticks,  the  people  said, — 
Burnt  in  the  fire,  and  quenched.    They  were  not  gay. 

RADISSON 

My  Owera,  if  thou  wilt  be  my  wife 
I  will  not  leave  thee  ever,  nor  forget. 

OWERA 
But  will  our  children  be  burnt  sticks  no  less? 

RADISSON 

Why,  that  will  be — of  that  I  cannot  say! 
The  gods  must  ever  meddle  in  affairs! 
It  is  a  mystery,  my  Owera. 

A  RUNNER 

(Entering  hastily  in  search  of  RADISSON) 

The  envoys  from  the  nation  to  the  west 

Have  come  with  gifts  to  join  the  Friendship  Feast, 

And  even  now  their  women  raise  their  tents 

In  the  allotted  portion  of  the  field. 


RADISSON  69 

RADISSON 

Go  tell  my  brother. 

(Exit  Runner  to  the  left.) 
There  will  be  a  feast 
Of  many  nations  when  they  all  arrive, 
With  games  of  sk'ill  and  strength  to  fill  the  days, 
And  dancing  of  the  strangers  in  the  night. 
Shall  it  not  be  our  wedding  feast,  as  well? 

OWERA 

(Drawing  back) 

My  father  saith  my  sin  hath  brought  the  woe 
Of  famine  on  the  nation.     I  must  wait 
And  seek  a  guiding  answer  in  my  dreams. 

RADISSON 

But  soon,  my  rose?    The  answer  will  be  soon? 
My  brother  purposes  that  we  should  go 
On  other  trails  for  furs.     He  would  return 
To  far  Quebec  beside  the  Bitter  Sea. 

But  I This  winter  laid  an  iron  hand 

Upon  my  heart.    We  two  have  looked  on  death. 

It  is  a  bond  we  may  not  break  at  will. 

Bid  me  to  stay,  and  he  shall  go  alone 

Back  to  the  French,  while  I  remain — with  thee. 

OWERA 

(Still  holding  aloof) 

Not  yet.     I  cannot  feel  the  answer  here. 
Go  thou  apart  a  little.     Then  return 


70  RADISSON 

After  the  moon  hath  wakened  from  her  sleep, 
And  Owera  will  know  the  trail  to  take. 

RADISSON 

Yet  thou  wilt  be  my  handmaid  at  the  feast, 
As  we  have  talked,  and  bear  my  redstone  pipe, 
And  walk  in  the  procession  just  before, 
That  other  chiefs  may  see  and  envy  me? 
Thou  wilt  not  hide  within  thy  tent  to-day? 

ANOTHER  RUNNER 
(Entering  from  the  other  side) 
The  envoys  from  the  nation  to  the  south, 
The  Nadouesioux,  the  Nation  of  the  Beef, 
Are  drawing  near,  and  ask  an  audience. 
Their  young  men,  naked,  run  across  the  snow 
To  prove  their  hardihood,  for  they  are  fierce, 
The  Buffalo  people,  and  have  never  heard 
Of  white  men's  fashions,  iron,  and  black-robe  talk. 

RADISSON 
Go  seek  my  brother. 

(Runner  exit  to  the  left.) 
Thou  wilt  not  refuse 
To  bear  my  pipe  before  me  when  we  go 
To  meet  the  strangers  and  to  smoke  with  them? 

OWERA 

To-day  I  am  thy  maiden.     I  obey. 
What  comes  to-morrow,  that  my  dreams  will  say. 


RADISSON  71 

(She  muffles  her  head  and  slips  away  like  a 
dark  shadow.) 

GROSEILLIERS 
(Entering  from  the  left  in  gay  spirits) 

The  envoys  come  from  north  and  south  and  west 
To  join  the  games  and  share  our  scanty  feast. 
After  the  famine,  feasts  are  easy  made! 
Mon  Dieuf  another  week,  and  I  had  lost 
The  art  of  eating,  for  this  world,  at  least. 

RADISSON 
(Somberly) 

Five  hundred  lost  it,  'ere  the  sun  broke  through 
The  cloud  of  snow,  and  raised  the  heavy  pall. 
The  winter  camp  hath  left  a  mound  of  graves, 
Yet  now — they  feast! 

GROSEILLIERS 

They  do.     And  me  to  thank! 
Our  business  needs  we  put  them  in  good  cheer. 

RADISSON 

Business  and  barter  somehow  seem  less  great. 
Dost  thou  recall  the  dog  I  stole  from  those 
Who  came  to  traffic,  holding  close  his  throat 
To  keep  him  silent,  lest  his  owner  guess? 
And  when  I  plunged  my  dagger  in  his  heart 
The  Wendats  gathered  up  the  spattered  snow 


72  RADISSON 

To  make  the  soup  and  let  no  drop  be  lost! 
Yet  Argenson  would  have  a  quarter  part! 

GROSEILLIERS 

What,  hath  the  famine  left  a  mark  on  thee 

That  food  will  not  displace?     Forget  thy  cares. 

Thy  thin  and  beardless  cheeks  have  won  thee  friends. 

Thou'st  suffered  with  them,  so  I  hear  them  say; 

But  I,  because  a  black  beard  hid  my  jowl, 

Do  get  no  credit  for  my  skin  and  bones. 

I  am  a  god  and  live  by  secret  food, 

Whilst  thou'rt  a  man  and  brother,  whom  they  love! 

RADISSON 

(Speaking  with  some  embarrassment) 
'Tis  true  I  am  a  man.    That  minds  me  say 

GROSEILLIERS 

Say  what?    Thy  voice  is  tangled  in  thy  words 

Like  stammering  schoolboy's.     Is   there  evil   news? 

RADISSON 

Nay,  nothing  new.    That  is, Nay,  nothing  new. 

And  yet,  I'd  have  thee  know  my  mind  is  bent 

GROSEILLIERS 

Is  bent  on  getting  home!     I  know  it  well! 
I  share  thy  longing.     Now  the  snow  is  gone 


RADISSON  73 

It  doth  behoove  us  that  we  make  all  haste 

To  gather  furs  from  bands  on  every  side. 

To  that  end  have  I  bidden  to  the  feast 

The  ancient  enemies  from  north  and  south, 

The  Crees  and  the  Ojibways  and  the  Sioux, 

To  bind  them  unto  peace,  that  they  may  spend 

Rather  their  strength   in   hunting  than   in  war, — 

By  which  we  thrive.    And  when  the  feast  is  done, 

With  seven  days  of  games  and  tournament, 

Then  thou  and  I  will  journey  with  the  Sioux, 

The  people  of  the  Buffalo,  who  return 

Down  to  their  country,  which,  I  gather,  lies 

Beyond  our  former  camp  on  Isle  Pelee. 

For  they  have  ancient  claim  upon  the  land 

Where  meet  the  Sky-Stream  and  the  Father-Stream, 

And  there  is  easy  portage  by  small  lakes 

Where  rapids  in  the  river  bar  the  way. 

There  we  will  barter  for  the  silver  fox 

And  beaver,  and  what  else  may  serve  our  turn, 

And  so  go  northward  by  the  river  trail 

Back  to  our  cache  beside  the  Upper  Lake 

And  find  the  goods  we  left  our  devils  to  watch — 

Ha,  ha! — that  was  a  happy  thought  of  thine! 

Then  home,  by  lake  and  sault, — to  Marguerite. 

RADISSON 
(Dismayed  at  this  rapid  programme) 

But  we  return  again  to  these  our  friends 
Ere  we  depart? 


74  RADISSON 

GROSEILLIERS 

Not  so.  The  trail  lies  east, — 
A  well-marked  river  trail,  to  reach  the  lake 
Where  first  we  came  ashore  and  hid  our  goods. 

RADISSON 
But  I — but  Owera 

GROSEILLIERS 
(Startled  and  suddenly  attentive) 

But  who?     But  what? 
Art  thou  a  trapper?     We  are  here  for  furs. 

RADISSON 
But  I — but  I  would  wed  with  Owera. 

GROSEILLIERS 

Now  Heaven  preserve  thy  wits.     Thy  brain  is  weak 
From  famine.     Thou,  a  Radisson,  wouldst  wed — 
Thy  word! — a  beaded  savage  from  the  wilds? 

RADISSON 
She  is  no  savage.     She  hath  been  baptized! 

GROSEILLIERS 

Has't  changed   her   blood?     What  serves  for   Saint 

Pierre 
Will  scarce  suffice  his  namesake  here  on  earth. 


RADISSON  75 

Oh,  I  can  see  excuse  in  time  and  place 

For  youth's  delirium, — that's  another  tale. 

But  wed !    And  now,  when  we  must  pack  and  tramp, 

And  travel  fast  and  far,  and  travel  light! 

Thou'rt  mad,  my  word  for  it,  so  say  no  more, 

But  play  thy  part  in  this  last  fantasy 

Of  savage  grandeur.     Mark,  the  envoys  come. 

RADISSON 

Medard,  I  am  no  boy.     My  word  to  thine, — 

I  will  return,  and  speak  with  Owera 

Before  we  take  the  trail  for  old  Quebec. 

I  will,  I  say, — I  will! — The  envoys,  mark! 

(ANAHOTAHA,  IHEE,  and  other  Wendats  en 
ter,  conducting  five  Sioux  envoys  who  have 
come  to  announce  the  approach  of  their  people 
for  the  Friendship  Feasi  prepared  by  GROSEIL- 
LIERS.  The  Sioux,  "  the  Iroquois  of  the 
West"  have  never  before  this  moment  beheld 
white  men,  or  known  their  many  inventions, 
and  their  curiosity  is  mingled  with  awe.  Their 
dress  is  entirely  of  skins  of  animals,  their 
weapons  are  bows  and  arrows  and  stone 
hatchets.  Each  envoy  carries  a  belt  of  ivam- 
pum  to  offer  as  the  "  gift "  which  must  accom 
pany  a  prayer  or  petition. 

The  Sioux,  "the  People  of  the  Beef,"  are 
hereditary  enemies  of  the  Crees  and  Ojibways, 
and  have  had  trouble  with  the  Wendats  at  Isle 
Pelee;  but  GROSEILLIERS'  policy  is  to  reconcile 


76  RADISSON 

all  these  differences,  in  order  to  turn  the  tribal 
energies  into  hunting  furs  for  him  instead  of 
fighting.  Hence  this  "  Friendship  Feast''  at 
which  the  Wendats  are  guests  instead  of  hosts. 
While  GROSEILLIERS  is  welcoming  the  Sioux 
envoys,  some  of  the  young  Wendats  build  a 
small  fire  with  twigs  and  sticks  in  the  center, 
in  order  that  the  pipes  may  be  lit  from  it.) 

ANAHOTAHA 
These  strangers  come  from  tribes  unknown  to  us. 

GROSEILLIERS 

My  runners  carried  gifts  to  all  the  tribes. 
I  bid  them  hearty  welcome.     Let  them  speak. 

FIRST  ENVOY 

White  Chiefs,  the  rumor  of  your  presence  here 

Hath  spread  abroad,  and  some  there  be  that  doubt, 

And  some  believe.     But  now  our  eyes  have  seen. 

And  if  ye  be  the  gods,  as  many  say, 

And  have  the  power  to  lay  waste  the  world, 

And  bring  or  stay  the  famine,  send  the  game 

Or  cover  it  with  shadows,  at  a  word, 

We  ask  you  read  our  hearts,  and  of  your  grace 

Withhold   your  anger  and   extend  your  love. 

(Offers  his  belt  by  laying  it  at  GROSEILLIERS' 
feet.) 


RADISSON  77 

SECOND  ENVOY 
(Offering  belt) 

The  oldest  women  of  the  tribe  have  sent 
This  belt  of  wampum,  and  their  prayer  is  this: 
That  water  may  not  fail,  nor  they  become 
Too  weak  to  carry  wood  upon  the  back. 

THIRD  ENVOY 
(Offering  belt) 

Our  children,  born,  and  yet  to  see  the  light, 
Ask,  by  this  belt,  that  theirs  be  room  to  play 
And  sport  unchecked  by  any  fear  of  harm. 

FOURTH  ENVOY 
(Offering  belt) 

The  fourth  belt  from  our  young  men  fit  to  hunt, 
Who  beg,  if  ye  be  gods,  that  they  may  go 
Freely  throughout  the  forest,  hunting  food 
To  feed  their  aged,  without  let  or  fear. 

FIFTH  ENVOY 
(Offering  belt) 

The  men  of  age,  the  warriors,  send  by  this 
A  prayer  that  lightning  may  not  strike,  nor  rain 
Destroy  the  lodges,  neither  may  the  wind 
Uproot  the  forests  or  obscure  the  trails. 
Yet  if  ye  be  not  gods,  but  hostile  chiefs 
That  come  to  spy  our  land,  they  ask  by  this 


78  RADISSON 

That  ye  lay  bare  your  hearts,  and  let  your  words, 
Like  runners  bearing  gifts,  declare  your  will. 

GROSEILLIERS 
(Accepting  the  offering) 
Our  will  is  peace  to  you  and  all  the  tribes 
That  ask  for  our  protection.    We  are  come 
Across  the  Salted  Lake  to  make  to  cease 
The  wars  between  the  People  of  the  Beef 
And  other  tribes  ye  hold  in  enmity. 
All  are  our  brothers.    Be  at  peace  henceforth. 
(Aside  to  RADISSON)  Bring  out  the  gifts  and  sweeten 
them  with  talk. 

RADISSON 

(Opening  a  pack  ready  prepared) 
And  for  a  token,  hatchets  made  of  iron, 
Sharper  than  flint,  we  give  to  each  of  you. 
Big  medicine  are  they.     Your  enemies 
Will  fall  before  them  as  a  riven  tree 
Before  a  flash  of  lightning.    To  your  wives 
We  give  these  magic  mirrors  made  of  tin. 
Who  looks  therein  at  once  grows  beautiful. 
Her  cheeks  grow  fat  as  bears  in  summer  time. 
This  is  our  gift,  in  answer  to  your  gifts. 

ANAHOTAHA 

(To  the  Sioux) 

Do  ye  take  gifts  from  those  that  love  your  foes? 
Even  so  unto  the  Cristinos  they  spake, 


RADISSON  79 

Your  ancient  enemies  who  dwell  above 

The  Upper  Lake.    To  them  they  offered  gifts. 

RADISSON 
(Interfering) 

Thou  speakest  truth,  O  Anahotaha! 

Think'st   thou,    perchance,    that  we  should   ask   thy 

leave  ? 

Full  eighteen  tribes  will  come  to  eat  with  us 
The  feast  of  friendship,  smoke  the  calumet, 
The  pipe  of  peace  and  counsel.     They  will  come 
Guests  of  my  brother,  mark  you,  and  myself. 
Have  we  your  leave  to  entertain  our  friends? 

GROSEILLIERS 
(Aside  to  RADISSON) 

'Twere  well  if  thou  wouldst  take  a  whiff  or  two 
Of  that  same  pipe  of  counsel  and  of  peace. 

RADISSON 

More,  I  myself  have  gone  among  the  Crees 

To    bid    them    come    and    feast,    and    bring    their 

pelts. 

And  if  I  find  an  evil  spirit  here 
To  whisper  treachery  and  turn  our  feast 
Into  a  slaughter,  I  will  deal  with  him 
So  it  is  talked  of  for  a  hundred  years. 


8o  RADISSON 

GROSEILLIERS 
(Aside  to  RADISSON) 
Thou  art  as  easy  ruffled  as  a  cock 
In  mating  season.     Come  and  play  thy  part. 
(To    envoys)    Before  we   go  to  watch   the   wrarriors 

dance 

And  see  the  young  men  at  their  games  of  skill 
Enact  the  chase,  and  show  in  pantomime 
How  they  pursue  the  foe,  and  drive  the  herd, 
Here  will  we  pass  the  sacred  calumet 
Among  our  friends,  the  envoys,  drinking  smoke 
As  those  who  make  a  peace  between  their  tribes. 
And  first,  before  we  draw  the  smoke  ourselves, 
We  all  will  throw  tobacco  on  the  coals 
To  win  the  favor  of  the  Manitou. 

THE  CHIEFS 
Tobacco  for  the  Manitou!     Ho!     Ho! 

GROSEILLIERS 
(Aside  to  RADISSON) 
Hast  thou  prepared  the  powder  for  our  turn? 

RADISSON 
A  little,  wetted.    Much  we  may  not  spare. 

GROSEILLIERS 
Our  greeting  to  the  Mighty  Spirit!     Ho! 

(The  Indians  circle  about  the  fire,  each  throw 
ing  a  pinch  of  tobacco  on  the  coals.     When  the 


RADISSON  81 

turn  comes  of  GROSEILLIERS  and  RADISSON, 
they  throw  tobacco  mixed  with  gunpowder,  and 
an  explosion  follows.) 

THE  CHIEFS 
(Tumbling  backward) 
The  white  men  must  be  devils!     Let  us  flee. 

RADISSON 

(Smoking  with  great  composure) 
Return,  and  put  away  your  childish  fear. 
Why  do  ye  tremble  at  a  puff  of  fire 
Blown  by  our  little  devils  in  the  flame? 
They  only  tried  to  steal  a  breath  of  smoke, 
Knowing  the  good  tobacco  that  we  drink. 

THE  CHIEFS 
(Returning  cautiously) 
Doth  it  not  burn  within? 

RADISSON 

We  mind  it  not. 

Such  the  tobacco  that  we  always  use. 
We  are  big  chiefs,  whom  all  the  devils  obey. 

GROSEILLIERS 
(Aside  to  RADISSON) 

Yet  thou  wouldst  have  me  think  that  thou  wouldst  wed 
Among  these  childish  people.    Pooh,  a  dream! 


82  RADISSON 

Now  let  us  make  us  ready  for  the  feast. 

(To  chiefs)  We  join  you  shortly,  where  the  field  is 

bare 
Between  the  new-set  tepees,  for  the  games. 

(RADISSON  and  GROSEILLIERS  go  out  to  the 
left.) 

Sioux  CHIEFS 
(Among  themselves) 

Yet  surely  they  are  devils,  breathing  fire. 
It  will  be  well  that  we  enrage  them  not. 

(They  go  out  to  the  right,) 

ANAHOTAHA 

(Who     has    watched     the    proceedings    with 
marked  lack   of  sympathy) 

If  they  be  gods  or  devils  or  but  men, 
I  will  not  stand  aside.     I  am  the  chief! 
Why  do  the  nations  offer  gifts  to  them, 
And  none  at  all  to  me,  who  am  the  chief? 

IHEE 
The  feast  is  of  their  giving.     It  is  good. 

ANAHOTAHA 

I  grudge  it  not  to  Gooseberry,  for  he 
Is  wise,  a  chief  at  heart.    But  Radisson, — 
He  talks  too  much  aside  with  Owera. 
I  will  not  have  it  so.    Am  I  the  chief? 


RADISSON  83 

IHEE 

Nay,  very  soon  they  leave  us  for  the  south, 
Departing  with  the  Sioux  on  their  return. 
A  chief  can  hide  his  heart  and  bide  his  time. 

ANAHOTAHA 
My  heart  is  tugging  hard  upon  its  bonds. 

(There  enters  an  elaborate  procession,  moving 
across  the  field  on  the  way  to  the  place  set  for 
the  games.  First  come  the  young  men  of  the 
Wendats,  their  warriors,  carrying  bows  and 
arrows,  and  wearing  the  gayest  headdresses  of 
feathers  and  furs  and  porcupine  quills;  then  the 
young  men  of  the  Sioux,  with  painted  faces 
and  bodies,  feathers  in  their  hair,  and  trailing 
tails  at  the  moccasin  heel;  then  the  young  men 
of  the  Crees,  wearing  furs,  and  carrying  snow- 
shoes.  All  the  young  men  carry  weapons. 

Then  the  old  men  and  chiefs  of  the  several 
tribes  follow,  wearing  ceremonial  dress,  and 
each  carrying  a  pipe. 

Then  the  personal  escort  of  the  Frenchmen, 
— first  four  men  carrying  their  guns;  then  four 
men  carrying  kettles  and  bowls  heaped  up  with 
trinkets  for  "  gifts "  ;  then  OWERA,  carrying 
RADISSON 's  redstone  pipe  uplifted  in  both 
hands,  while  another  maiden  bears  GROSEIL- 
LIERS'.  The  girls  wear  their  gayest  dress,  with 
many  adornments  of  beads  and  trinkets. 


84  RADISSON 

RADISSON  and  GROSEILLIERS  follow  in  state. 
To  satisfy  the  Indians'  idea  of  grandeur,  they 
have  assumed  all  the  adornments  possible, — 
embroidered  cloaks,  necklaces,  rolls  of  fur 
trimmed  with  porcupine  quills  upon  their  heads, 
like  crowns.  Knives  and  pistols  are  at  the  belt. 

Following  them  comes  the  undistinguished 
huddle  of  an  Indian  camp,  men,  women,  and 
children,  gay  with  incongruous  adornment,  all 
pressing  forward,  yet  masking  their  curiosity 
and  eagerness  with  an  air  of  self-possessed 
dignity.) 

ANAHOTAHA 
(To  IHEE) 

Hast  thou  ordained  that  Owera  should  bear 
His  pipe  before  the  nations  gathered  here? 

IHEE 

He  hath  great  wealth  of  knives  and  bells  and  awls, 
And  he  will  soon  depart  and  take  it  hence. 

(As  RADISSON  passes  he  notices  ANAHOTAHA 
and  IHEE  standing  apart,  and  calls  to  them.) 

RADISSON 

Ihee,  my  father, — Anahotaha, 

My  brother-chief,  why  stand  ye  thus  apart? 

Come,  join  my  retinue,  and  give  me  aid 


RADISSON  85 

In  welcoming  the  chiefs  of  other  tribes. 
For  ye  are  of  my  household,  I  of  yours. 
When  I  return  from  traffic  with  the  Sioux, 
This  speech  recall.     I'll  make  it  clear  to  you. 

(He  goes  on  with  procession.) 

ANAHOTAHA 

My  heart  will  know  no  peace  till  he  is  dead. 
If  he  return,  I  slay  him.     It  is  said. 

[CURTAIN] 


"THE  FEAST  OF  FRIENDSHIP" 

A  WORDLESS  PAGEANT 
(Interlude  between  Acts  III  and  IV) 

AN  open,  clear  space  in  the  forest,  inclosed  by  close- 
set  bushes  not  yet  in  leaf,  has  been  prepared  for  the 
celebration  of  the  "  Feast  of  Friendship."  A  "  medi 
cine-pole  "  has  been  erected, — a  tall  pole  decorated 
with  feathers  and  fluttering  streamers.  At  its  foot 
is  the  large  drum  of  ceremony,  made  of  untanned  hide 
stretched  upon  a  frame,  and  supported  by  four  curved 
stakes  driven  into  the  ground.  Four  or  five  drum 
mers  squat  about  it,  each  with  his  drumstick  and  his 
pipe  of  ceremony  upon  a  buffalo-robe  at  his  side. 

The  Indians,  men,  women,  and  children,  gather  si 
lently  from  all  sides.  Those  who  are  about  to  take 
part  in  the  dance  squat  in  a  circle  about  the  medicine- 
pole,  while  the  others  dispose  themselves  as  observers 
about  the  sides  of  the  field.  The  visiting  Sioux  wear 
robes  of  buffalo-skin,  breast-plates  of  porcupine  quills, 
and  necklaces  of  bear-claws.  At  each  moccasin  heel 
is  fastened  the  tail  of  a  fox,  or  other  animal,  which 
trails  on  the  ground.  Their  headdresses  are  fantastic 
beyond  imagination, — made  of  buffalo  horns,  turkey 
feathers,  rolls  of  beaver-skin,  and  porcupine  quills.  As 

86 


RADISSON  87 

they  have  never  come  into  contact  with  the  whites  be 
fore,  they  have  no  woven  cloth  in  their  garments,  which 
are  composed  entirely  of  skins.  Their  young  men, 
and  those  taking  part  in  the  dances  and  games,  are 
naked  except  for  moccasins,  loin  cloth,  headdress,  and 
occasionally  a  decorative  tail  of  feathers  fastened  to 
a  belt.  Their  weapons  are  hammers  and  hatchets  made 
of  sharp  stones  tied  to  a  stick,  and  bows  and  arrows. 
Some  carry  shields  of  buffalo-skin  stretched  upon  a 
round  frame,  and  decorated  with  feathers.  Their 
faces  and  bodies  are  painted. 

The  visiting  Crees,  who  come  from  the  northern 
shore  of  Lake  Superior,  are  characteristically  dressed 
in  furs.  Their  hair  is  flowing,  whereas  the  Sioux 
and  Wendats  wear  theirs  braided ;  and  their  caps  of 
fur  are  ornamented  with  the  tails  of  animals.  Their 
armlets  and  other  ornaments  are  of  copper  and  of 
shells. 

The  Wendats  wear  their  customary  dress  of  deer 
skin  leggings  and  shirts,  together  with  traders'  blan 
kets  and  broadcloth,  with  the  addition  of  ceremonial 
robes,  feather  decorations,  and  ornaments. 

When  the  crowds  have  gathered,  the  procession 
which  passed  at  the  close  of  Act  III  enters  in  the 
same  order.  After  crossing  the  field,  GROSEILLIERS 
and  RADISSON  seat  themselves  on  an  elevated  place 
which  has  been  erected  at  one  side.  Their  immediate 
attendants  close  up  about  them,  the  other  Indians  range 
themselves  lower  down  and  in  the  background,  most 
of  them  reclining  upon  the  ground. 

A  Sioux  warrior,  wearing  a  war-bonnet  of  black 


88  RADISSON 

eagle  feathers  which  reaches  to  the  ground  behind  him, 
approaches  the  Frenchmen,  and  offers  a  redstone  pipe, 
with  stem  five  feet  long,  decorated  with  feathers. 
GROSEILLIERS  fills  it  with  tobacco,  and  signs  to 
OWERA,  who  lights  it  with  a  live  coal.  GROSEILLIERS 
and  RADISSON  each  draw  a  puff,  and  return  the  pipe 
to  the  Sioux,  who  lifts  it  to  the  four  corners  of  heaven 
and  then  draws  a  puff  and  passes  it  back  to  the  other 
Sioux,  who  hand  it  about  among  themselves,  each 
drawing  a  puff.  The  Sioux  then  throws  his  painted 
cloak  at  the  feet  of  GROSEILLIERS  and  sings  a  song  to 
the  accompaniment  of  the  drum,  expressing  his  thank 
fulness  that  he  has  seen  "  these  terrible  men,  whose 
words  make  the  earth  to  quake."  RADISSON  answers 
with  a  gay  French  song,  which  is  listened  to  with 
grave  attention.  GROSEILLIERS  gives  out  his  "  gifts  " 
of  trinkets  to  the  various  tribes. 

The  drummers  resume  the  rhythmic  beat  which  ac 
companies  their  dancing,  and  as  it  gets  into  the  blood 
of  the  performers  they  spring  up  and  begin  to  dance, 
one  here,  another  there,  until  finally  the  whole  circle 
is  moving.  The  savage  dance  has  a  hypnotic  effect 
upon  the  performers  themselves  and  works  them  up 
into  a  frenzy.  It  begins  with  a  rhythmic  shifting  of 
the  weight  from  one  foot  to  the  other,  accompanied 
by  a  bending  of  the  knees,  and  a  slapping  of  the  sole 
on  the  ground,  always  in  time  with  the  drum,  but 
on  this  foundation  each  dancer  develops  his  own  fan 
tasies.  Some  circle  stolidly  about  in  time  with  the 
drum-beat,  some  double  the  time,  some  bend  the  knees 
and  swoop  along  the  ground,  or  shake  the  limbs  to 


RADISSON  89 

show  agility.  Some  enact  with  dramatic  pantomime 
following  the  trail  of  the  enemy,  lying  in  ambush,  com 
ing  upon  him,  fighting  and  overcoming  him,  tying  him 
to  a  stake, — all  to  the  measured  beat  of  the  drums. 
Others  enact  the  sentry,  listening  with  ear  to  the 
ground,  giving  an  alarm,  retreating  under  cover. 

A  buffalo-dance  follows,  in  which  the  chase  and  cap 
ture  of  a  herd  of  buffaloes  are  enacted.  The  sentry 
brings  word  of  the  herd,  the  warriors  throw  aside  all 
superfluous  clothing  and  snatch  up  spears  and  clubs; 
some  assume  a  mask  of  a  buffalo  head  and  cover  their 
arms  and  back  with  buffalo-skin,  while  others,  as  stalk 
ers,  creep  ahead  under  covering  of  a  whole  white  wolf 
skin.  They  creep  stealthily  upon  an  imagined  herd, 
surround  it  with  wild  shouts  and  leapings,  throw 
spears,  force  the  herd  over  a  precipice,  and  the  women 
gather  to  skin  the  animals,  while  the  braves  dance 
in  victory. 

The  Crees  give  a  dance  on  snowshoes,  showing  their 
skill  in  using  these  clumsy  implements.  Also  a  bear- 
dance,  each  dancer  wearing  a  bear's  head,  and  flopping 
his  arms  from  the  elbow  in  the  fashion  of  a  bear  walk 
ing  upright. 

The  women  do  not  join  in  the  dances  with  the  men, 
but  occasionally  they  form  a  circle  of  their  own  at 
one  side,  moving  always  in  a  slow  circling  sweep  to 
the  right,  bending  the  knees  at  each  step,  but  other 
wise  keeping  the  body  rigid.  Occasionally  they  punc 
tuate  their  own  dance  or  accent  the  dance  of  the  men 
with  a  shrill  falsetto  cry — "Ki-yi!" — which  cuts 
weirdly  across  the  heavier  "  Ho,  ho!"  of  the  men. 


go  RADISSON 

Sometimes  one  and  sometimes  all  of  them  at  once  will 
break  into  a  song. 

Formal  games  and  contests  in  skill  follow.  A  pole 
is  set  up,  a  scalp  hung  upon  it,  and  one  warrior  after 
another  shoots  an  arrow  into  the  pole.  When  he  suc 
ceeds  he  sings  a  short  song,  boastfully  recounting  some 
great  exploit;  when  he  fails  he  is  hooted  by  the 
watchers. 

A  netted  hoop  is  set  rolling,  and  the  archers  run 
alongside  and  shoot  through  the  open  places  in  the 
net.  This  is  a  game,  in  which  the  space  pierced  and 
the  way  the  arrows  fall  are  counted  as  "  points." 

The  game  of  "  snow  snakes  "  consists  of  throwing 
curved  sticks,  or  spears,  on  a  cleared  space  of  ice. 

A  game  of  la  crosse  is  played,  with  different  tribes 
on  opposing  sides.  Contests  in  racing,  stilt  contests, 
and  climbing  a  pole  for  a  prize  placed  by  RADISSON  at 
the  top,  fill  out  the  programme.  The  Indians  laugh 
easily  and  explosively  at  any  mishaps  to  the  contestants. 

At  the  sides,  here  and  there,  little  groups  are  play 
ing  gambling  games,  like  the  moccasin  game,  the  hand 
game,  the  game  of  the  dish,  and  the  game  of  sticks. 
Here  and  there  a  woman  juggles  balls  in  the  air. 
Groups  of  beggars  go  about,  dancing  the  Begging 
Dance  and  singing  the  Begging  Song — which  may 
not  be  denied! 

The  ceremonies  are  concluded  when  GROSEILLIERS' 
Indians  bring  in  great  kettles  of  cooked  meat,  from 
which  all  eat,  while  RADISSON  sings  French  songs. 

[CURTAIN] 


ACT  IV 

A  vast  snow-covered  plain.  Fringing  it  in  the  dis 
tance  are  dark  borders  of  pine  and  spruce,  from  which 
comes  now  and  again  the  questing  bark  of  the  wolf, 
ending  in  an  ominous  howl.  The  sun  is  setting  in  an 
angry  glare,  throwing  a  blood-red  glow  upon  the 
wind-blown  hillocks  of  snow.  As  it  sinks  below  the 
horizon  the  glow  fades,  and  snow  begins  to  fall,  hard 
and  sharp  as  frozen  sand. 

The  wolf  howls  again,  and  RADISSON,  who  has  been 
lying  in  a  huddled  heap  upon  the  ground,  pulls  himself 
to  his  feet.  He  looks  toward  the  wood,  toward  the 
sunset,  and  staggers  forward  a  few  paces.  Then  he 
sinks  beside  a  bare  bush.  The  wolf  howls  again. 
RADJSSON  pulls  himself  up  by  the  aid  of  the  bush,  and 
speaks. 

RADISSON 

Is  this  the  end,  Pierre?— The  end?— The  end? 
An  end  must  come  in  time.     Is  this  the  place? — 
'Tis  now  five  days  that  I  have  forced  my  limbs 
Beyond  the  torture  point  to  bear  me  on 
Across  the  solitary,  endless  waste, 
And  they  have  shrieked  with  pain  till  they  are  dead. 
Good  legs,  they're  dead,  I  tell  thee.     They  no  more 
Can  move  than  dead  men,  stretched  upon  the  snow, 

91 


92  RADISSON 

Flapping  a  scarf-end  for  a  show  of  life. 

O  treacherous  Ottawas!     A  thieving  set! 

Medard  will  wait  to  keep  the  rendezvous, 

And  wonder.     Good  Medard!     He'll  blame  himself 

Because  I  took  the  heavier  sled  from  him 

To  ease  him,  I,  the  younger.    Could  I  know 

The  ice  was  rotten  with  the  mounting  sun? 

The  freezing  water  clutched  me  to  the  thigh 

With  devil  fingers.     But  I  saved  the  sled. 

It  bore  the  merchandise  that  held  our  life. 

His  life,  at  least.     He'll  miss  me,  poor  Medard, — 

A  cruel  mistress,  that  is  what  he  said, — 

This  wilderness  I  loved.    And  so  it  is, 

And  when  did  lover  love  the  less  for  that? — 

0  fair  and  cold,  I  die  upon  thy  breast, 
And  thou  wilt  hold  me  as  no  woman  hath, 
My  restless  heart  at  peace  within  thine  arms, 
Forever  and  forever.    Thee  I  sought, 

Thee  have  I  thought  to  conquer  to  my  will. 

1  die,  instead,  but  die  upon  thy  breast. 

And  so  I  triumph!  Thou  shalt  ne'er  be  free 
From  me,  my  name  and  memory,  O  beloved! 
Thou'rt  mine  at  last.  Now — kiss  me  on  the  lips! 

(He  sinks  down  again  and  lies  in  a  stupor.) 

ANAHOTAHA,  wearing  a  cloak  of  white  beaver- 
skins  over  the  light  equipment  of  a  scout,  comes 
upon  the  scene  at  the  back.  He  pauses  to  look 
abroad,  and  then  comes  swiftly  down  on 
RADISSON'S  trail.  Leaning  over  the  fallen  man, 
he  speaks  and  puts  out  his  hand  to  shake  him.) 


RADISSON  93 

ANAHOTAHA 

Ugh,  dead?    I  come  too  late.    White  chief,  awake! — 
Awake,  and  die  again,  for  I  would  see. 

RADISSON 
ousing  himself) 

What,  Anahotaha?    Art  thou  a  dream, 
Or  flesh? — My  brother  sent  to  seek  me  here? 

ANAHOTAHA 

Thy  brother  sent  me  not.    I  came  in  hate. 
I  am  no  friend.     I  come  to  see  thee  die. 

RADISSON 
(Lifting  himself  up) 

Thou  giv'st  me  life,  nathless.     My  thanks!    But  why 
Should  Anahotaha  become  my  foe? 

ANAHOTAHA 

Because  the  white  chief  came  across  my  path 
When  I  was — hunting  deer.     Dost  lack  for  food? 

RADISSON 
(Carrying  his  role  to  the  end) 

I?    Lack  for  food?     'Tis  true  my  fast  is  now 
Near  five  days  old,  my  friend;  but  that  is  naught. 
My  devil  feedeth  me  when  I  command 
With  broth  that  lifts  my  heart  and  keeps  me  strong! 


94  RADISSON 

ANAHOTAHA 
(Taking  food  from  his  own  pouch  to  test  him) 

Thine  eyes  are  hollow  as  a  starving  man's. 
Yet  clear  enough  they  see  to  note  the  food 
I  take  from  out  my  pouch — and  eat  alone. 
Thou  wilt  not  beg  a  crumb?     Thou  art  a  brave! 
Yet  none  the  less  shalt  die.     And  here  I  stay 
To  watch  thine  eyeballs  glaze,  thy  lips  to  crack, 
Thy  limbs  to  twist  in  torture.     I  will  bend 
To  drink  the  rattle  in  thy  dying  throat 
As  lover  bends  to  hear  his  mistress  breathe. 

RADISSON 
We  have  been  friends.     Why  turn  against  me  now? 

ANAHOTAHA 

We  never  have  been  friends.     My  father  knew. 
He  saw  ye  were  the  stronger  in  your  hearts, 
And  in  the  silent  words  ye  do  not  speak, 
And  in  the  thoughts  that  hide  behind  the  eyes. 
The  gods  have  given  you  the  lead.    The  race 
Is  yours  before  we  start.    Can  we  be  friends? 

RADISSON 
Yet  need'st  thou  slay  me? 

ANAHOTAHA 

I  have  longed  at  times 
To  break  and  trample  in  the  dust  your  guns, 


RADISSON  95 

Your  shining  things,  your  wonder-cutting  knives. 
Why  was  it  given  to  you  and  not  to  us 
To  know  the  secret? 

RADISSON 
(Suddenly) 

Hark!     Be  still,  and  hark! 

RUNNERS 

(Heard  calling  in  the  distance,  but  out  of  sight) 
Oho!    Oho!    Oho!    Pierre!    Oho! 

RADISSON 
They  come!     They  search  for  me! 

(ANAHOTAHA  throws  himself  upon  RADISSON, 
bearing  him  to  the  ground,  and  covers  their 
bodies  with  his  white  beaver-robe,  indistin 
guishable  against  the  snow.) 

ANAHOTAHA 
Lie  still,  white  chief. 

RUNNERS 

(Departing) 

Oho,  Pierre!    Pierre!  (Faint  in  the  distance.) 

Oho!    O-ho! 


96  RADISSON 

RADISSON 

(Struggling  free  and  speaking  with  deadly  calm) 
Thou  art  a  devil,  Anahotaha. 

ANAHOTAHA 

I  am  a  brave,  and  I  will  wear  thy  scalp 
Adangle  at  my  belt  to  show  to  all 
I  overcame  the  white  chief  in  the  end. 
Which  is  the  better  now,  or  thou,  or  I? 
For  all  thy  guns  which  is  the  better  now? 

(Realizing  at  last  the  sinister  significance  of 
ANAHOTAHA'S  hostility  and  the  hopelessness  of 
his  situation,  RADISSON  takes  swift  command 
of  his  soul.  Turning  carelessly  from  ANA 
HOTAHA  he  folds  his  arms  and  sings  a  lilting 
song.) 

RADISSON 

Die  we  may  and  die  we  must. 
Dust  will  crumble  unto  dust. 
Soon  or  late  will  come  a  day 
Earth  we  love  will  slip  away. 

ANAHOTAHA 

Thou  art  a  brave,  yet  I  shall  see  thee  die 
Little  by  little,  fighting  still  for  hope. 

RADISSON 
(Singing) 

If  then  the  happy  chance  befall 
To  die  with  back  against  the  wall 


RADISSON  97 

Why,  take  it  as  a  crowning  grace 

That  death  should  choose  no  meaner  place. 


ANAHOTAHA 

A  strong-heart  song.     And  since  there  is  no  fear 

Within  thine  eye,  nor  tremor  in  thy  voice, 

I  will  forego  thy  torture.    Even  more, — 

I'll  give  thee  back  thy  life  and  bear  thee  home 

If  thou  in  turn  wilt  give  thy  word  to  me — 

The  word  of  truth  that  thou  art  wont  to  use 

With  other  white  men,  not  the  easy  lie 

Ye  give,  like  toys,  to  redmen, — give  thy  truth 

That  thou  wilt  leave  the  Wendat  land,  and  go 

Back  to  thine  own,  and  trouble  us  no  more. 

RADISSON 
What  else? 

ANAHOTAHA 

And  that  thou  leav'st  me  Owera. 

RADISSON 
If  I  refuse? 

ANAHOTAHA 

Thou'lt  take  the  Road  of  Death, 
And  that  will  lead  thee  far  from  Owera. 

(From  the  shadowy  forest  the  wolfs  howl  is 
repeated,  and  answered.) 


98  RADISSON 

RADISSON 

I've  seen  the  deer  I  shot,  upon  its  knees, 

Look  at  my  dagger  with  a  tranquil  eye. 

Think'st  thou  a  deer  can  better  Radisson? 

Thou  canst  not  touch  me,  Anahotaha. 

My  limbs  are  locked  as  in  a  trap  that's  sprung, 

And  bound  in  chains  of  fire.     But  I,  within, 

Can  look  thee  in  the  eye  and  laugh  at  thee. 

The  moment  that  thy  dagger  spills  my  blood 

I  shall  escape  thee.     Shall  I  bargain,  then, 

For  life,  as  for  a  peltry,  giving  up 

My  will  to  thee,  to  win  a  little  breath, 

And  thy  contempt,  and  mine?     I  will  not!    Strike! 

ANAHOTAHA 
A  panther,  and  no  deer,  it  is  I  slay, 

(He  grasps  RADISSON'S  throat  and  lifts  his  dag 
ger.  There  is  a  short  struggle,  and  then  a  cry 
comes  across  the  snow.  Startled,  ANAHOTAHA 
drops  his  hold  on  RADISSON,  who  gets  to  his 
feet.  Both  stare  toward  the  back,  where 
OWERA  appears,  approaching  rapidly  on  snow- 
shoes.  She  cries  again.) 

OWERA 
O  Anahotaha! 

(She  comes  up  swiftly  and  looks  from  one  to 
another.) 

I  came  in  time! 


RADISSON  99 

RADISSON 
(Laughing  in  sudden  revulsion  to  hope) 

And  naught  to  spare!     Yet  time  is  time  enough. 
My  brother  and  the  others, — are  they  near? 

OWERA 

(Breathless) 

I  came  alone.     I  saw  the  Ottawas 

Come  into  camp.    Their  tongues  were  ever  false 

Because  their  hearts  are  covetous.     I  saw 

That  Anahotaha  had  slipped  away. 

I  knew  he  took  the  trail.     I  followed  him, 

For  there  is  none  so  sure  to  find  the  trail 

As  Anahotaha. 

ANAHOTAHA 
(In  a  sort  of  bewildered  rage) 

And  none  so  strong. 
A  bison  in  a  rage  is  not  so  strong, 
And  I  could  slay  you  both.    What  holds  my  hand? 

OWERA 

(With  the  serene  dignity  of  one  who  sees  be 
yond  the  moment) 

Then  thou  wilt  slay  thy  wife,  for  I  am  come 
To  say  to  Anahotaha,  the  chief, 
That  I  am  ready. 


ioo  RADISSON 

RADISSON 

Not  to  save  my  life! 
Nay,  Owera,  I  would  not  take  my  life 
At  cost  of  love  and  liberty  to  thee. 

ANAHOTAHA 
To  buy  his  life, — is  that  why  thou  hast  come? 

OWERA 

(With  grave  dignity) 

His  life  shall  be  the  gift  my  husband  brings 
To  me,  his  bride,  in  place  of  beaver-robes, 
And  I  do  give  it  now  to  Radisson, — 
A  gift  at  parting,  as  our  custom  is. 
I  was  bewildered  for  a  time.     I  lost 
Our  ancient  skill  to  read  the  secret  signs 
That  guide  my  people  over  trackless  wastes. 
I  dreamed  of  other  customs,  smoother  trails. 
And  felt  myself  the  wiser  for  the  sign 
The  black  robes  set  upon  my  childish  brow, 
And  so  I  scorned  my  people,  and  withheld 
My  heart  from  Anahotaha,  who  sued. 
And  then  the  famine  came,  in  punishment, 
And  understanding  fell  upon  my  heart. 
My  place  is  here  and  not  beyond  the  sea. 
The  gods  have  set  me  here,  not  otherwhere. 
If  I  have  wisdom,  they  have  greater  need, — 
My  people.     Anahotaha  and  I 
Must  lead  them  on  the  weary  trail  they  go. 
My  head  is  bowed  to  take  the  burden-band. 


RADISSON  iox 

RUNNERS 

(Faint  in  the  distance) 
Oho,  oho!     Pierre!     Oho!     Oho! 

ANAHOTAHA 

(Curtly) 
Thy  brother's  runners.    Answer  to  the  call. 

RADISSON 
Oho!     Oho! — They  hear!     I  see  them  turn. 

ANAHOTAHA 
(Waves  signal) 
Oho!    Oho! 

RUNNERS 

(Nearer) 
Pierre!     Oho!     Pierre! 

ANAHOTAHA 

They  come  for  thee,  and  here  our  trails  divide. 
Farewell,  white  chief.     My  woman,  follow  me! 

(He  turns  and  without  looking  backward  makes 
off  on  a  new  trail.) 


102  RADISSON 

OWERA 

(Briefly) 

The  eagle  to  the  mountain!     But  the  owl 
With  weighted  eyelid,  hides  him  from  the  light. 
The  gods  have  willed  it  so.    And  so  farewell. 

(With  unfaltering,  rhythmic  step,  she  follows 
ANAHOTAHA  off.) 

RADISSON 

My  Owera,  my  wonder-child! — Farewell! — 

We  bind  our  shoes  with  heart-strings,  place  of  thongs, 

And  never  guess  the  marvel,  as  we  use 

The  light  of  day  for  common  offices 

Nor  count  its  origin  among  the  spheres! 

The  stream  of  life  hath  caught  us;  we  are  swept 

By  powers  we  know  not,  upon  unsought  shores, 

For  purposes  we  cannot  even  guess. 

But  by  the  will  of  me  that  dares  to  live, 

I  will  return  no  more  to  Wendat  land. 

I  will  go  northward  on  another  trail, 

And  trouble  them  no  more  by  my  return. 

RUNNERS 

(In  sight,  signaling  to  him) 
Oho!     Pierre! 

RADISSON 

Oho!     I  wait  you  here! — 
Since  else  to  do  is  yet  beyond  my  power! 


RADISSON  103 

(He  removes  his  cap  and  sweeps  the  landscape 
with  a  long  look.) 

My  wilderness!    Thy  pardon!     I  depart, 

But  here   I   leave  my  dream — my  name — my  heart! 

[FINAL  CURTAIN] 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  INDIAN 

A  mist  that  shifts  and  changes  with  the  wind, 

A  dream  the  dreamer  tries  in  vain  to  hold, — 

Such  is  the  mastery  on  the  earth  of  man. 

Where  once  the  unfettered  Redman  roamed  at  will, 

The  white  man  claims  the  land  by  metes  and  bounds. 

The  clang  of  mill  and  factory  breaks  the  hush 

That  brooded  on  the  prairie  and  the  stream, 

And  where  the  moccasin  flower,  shy  and  wild, 

Danced  with  the  wind  and  sheltered  in  the  shade, 

The  prim,  trim  fields  march  straitly,  row  by  row. 

What  has  been,  shall  be;  change  shall  follow  change. 

For  the  dominion  that  man  claims  is  vain, 

His  lordship  of  the  earth  a  passing  dream, — 

A  dream  the  dreamer  tries  in  vain  to  clasp, 

A  mist  that  melts  within  his  futile  grasp. 


HISTORICAL  NOTE 

THE  detailed  account,  in  manuscript,  of  the  four 
"  voyages  "  of  Pierre  Esprit  Radisson  was,  it  is  con 
jectured,  written  out  by  the  adventurer  from  his  rough 
notes  about  1665,  some  ten  years  after  that  first  visit 
to  the  Upper  Mississippi  which  he  chronicles.  The 
account  was  prepared  for  Sir  George  Carteret,  Vice- 
Chamberlain  of  Charles  II,  at  a  time  when  Radisson 
and  Groseilliers,  bitter  at  what  they  considered  the 
extortionate  demands  of  their  own  government,  were 
engaged  in  enlisting  English  influence  for  the  founding 
of  a  company  to  exploit  the  great  Northwest  of  the 
New  World.  Their  representations  led,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  to  the  establishment  of  the  Hudson  Bay  Com 
pany,  which  was  chartered  in  1670,  and  the  two  ad 
venturers  were  engaged  under  that  company  for  ten 
years.  Then  they  both  returned  to  the  service  of 
France,  and  for  the  next  ten  years  used  their  intimate 
knowledge  of  the  country  to  outwit  and  out-trade  the 
English  trappers.  In  1684  Radisson  again  entered  the 
service  of  the  Hudson  Bay  Company,  this  time  with 
out  Groseilliers,  who,  it  is  conjectured,  probably  died 
soon  afterward  in  Canada.  Radisson  at  once  voy 
aged  to  Hudson  Bay  and  took  forcible  possession  of 
the  chief  French  trading  post;  but  after  only  four 
years  of  active  service  he  seems  to  have  been  placed 

107 


io8  RADISSON 

on  the  pension  list  of  the  company.  As  he  was  then 
only  fifty-three  years  old,  one  quickly  guesses  that  his 
daring  had  finally  led  him  into  some  hazard  which 
ended  his  adventures  forever.  Twenty-one  years  later 
the  pension  ceased,  indicating  that  Radisson  died  in 
England  in  1710. 

Radisson's  manuscripts  came  into  the  possession  of 
Samuel  Pepys  when  Secretary  of  the  Admiralty, — a 
part  of  that  remarkable  collection  which  went,  in  large 
part,  after  the  death  of  the  diarist,  to  wrap  the  par 
cels  of  London  tradesmen.  Later,  Richard  Rawlinson, 
the  collector,  rescued  many  of  Pepys's  most  valuable 
papers;  and  two  Radisson  manuscripts  came  into  the 
possession  of  the  Bodleian  Library  and  the  British 
Museum,  where  they  remained  practically  unknown 
to  the  world  until  1885.  In  that  year  a  transcript 
was  made  from  the  original  manuscripts,  and  this  was 
published  in  a  limited  edition  of  two  hundred  and  fifty 
copies  by  the  Prince  Society,  of  Boston,  a  society 
devoted  to  the  publication  of  rare  documents  relating 
to  early  American  history. 

Radisson's  narrative,  written  in  the  colloquial  Eng 
lish  which  he  used  familiarly,  is  the  composition  of  a 
fur  trader  and  adventurer,  not  of  a  scientific  explorer 
or  a  professional  discoverer.  It  is,  therefore,  lacking 
in  certain  of  the  qualities  of  exactness  which  the  his 
torian  values;  yet  its  main  points  are  sufficiently  cor 
roborated  by  contemporary  records  to  establish  their 
verity. 

The  incidents  which  have  been  used  in  the  drama 
belong  to  the  years  1655-56  and  1659-60.  In  August, 


HISTORICAL  NOTE  109 

1654,  Groseilliers,  an  experienced  Indian  trader, 
thirty-four  years  old,  and  his  young  brother-in-law, 
Radisson,  who,  though  only  nineteen,  already  had 
seven  years  of  adventure  on  both  continents  behind 
him,  set  out  from  Three  Rivers  to  open  new  trails 
into  the  Far  West.  With  an  escort  of  Hurons  and 
Ottawas,  they  followed  the  customary  route  to  Lake 
Huron,  and  spent  the  autumn  and  winter  in  the  region 
of  Mackinac  and  Green  Bay.  Early  the  next  spring, 
before  the  snow  was  gone,  the  little  party  traveled 
on  snowshoes  southwestward  to  a  great  river,  striking 
the  Mississippi  probably  near  the  mouth  of  the  Fox 
River.  Building  boats,  they  ascended  the  stream  to 
Isle  Pelee,  where  they  were  surprised  and  relieved  to 
find  a  newly  settled  band  of  Hurons,  driven  from  their 
home  near  the  Georgian  Bay  by  the  warlike  Iroquois. 
They  stayed  with  these  friendly  Indians  for  over  a 
year,  and  while  Radisson  went  about  with  the  young 
men,  exploring  and  hunting,  Groseilliers  devoted  him 
self  to  raising  a  harvest  on  the  island  to  equip  them 
for  their  return  journey.  The  pacific  Hurons,  fearing 
to  encounter  their  old  enemies,  the  Iroquois,  tried  to 
detain  them,  and  were  only  shamed  into  providing  an 
escort  for  the  journey  by  Radisson's  fiery  denuncia 
tions,  after  Groseilliers'  persuasive  arguments  had 
failed. 

Three  years  later  they  returned  to  the  West,  coast 
ing  along  the  southern  shore  of  Lake  Superior  to 
Chequamegon  Bay.  Four  days'  march  south,  near  a 
lake  (identified  as  probably  Lac  Courte  Oreille),  they 
found  a  band  of  their  Isle  Pelee  Indians,  who  had 


no  RADISSON 

been  driven  northward  by  the  Sioux.  That  winter 
was  marked  by  a  terrible  famine,  in  which  over  five 
hundred  of  the  Hurons  and  Ottawas  perished.  With 
the  opening  of  spring,  the  two  Frenchmen  called  all 
the  neighboring  tribes  to  a  great  feast  in  the  region 
of  Knife  Lake, — which  probably  takes  its  name  from 
that  event,  as  the  fact  that  the  Sioux  Indians  then 
first  came  into  contact  with  the  whites  and  received 
knives  from  them  is  preserved  in  the  traditions  of  the 
tribe,  and  in  the  name  by  which  they  were  later  known 
to  Du  Luth  and  Hennepin,  of  Isanti  or  Knife  Sioux. 
After  the  feast  the  two  trappers  traveled  south  with 
the  returning  Sioux  to  their  own  land  in  the  region 
of  the  Minnesota,  Mississippi,  and  Rum  rivers,  and 
then  returned,  with  their  laden  sleds,  to  Chequamegon 
Bay.  On  this  return  trip  Radisson  met  with  the  mis 
adventures  which  have  been  used  to  give  the  setting 
for  the  fourth  act. 

For  a  popular  account  of  Radisson's  narrative,  the 
reader  is  referred  to  the  essay,  "  Groseilliers  and  Radis 
son,  "  by  Mr.  Warren  Upham,  Secretary  of  the  Min 
nesota  State  Historical  Society,  published  in  Volume 
X,  Part  II,  of  the  "  Collections  "  of  that  society. 


DIRECTIONS  FOR  COSTUMING  AND 
MOUNTING  IF  THE  PLAY  IS  TO  BE 
GIVEN  BY  AMATEURS 

As  all  the  scenes  are  out  of  doors,  the  play  is  easily 
adapted  for  out-of-door  presentation  by  amateurs.  The 
same  setting,  an  open  space  inclosed  by  trees,  could 
be  used  throughout,  leaving  the  speeches  of  the  char 
acters  to  indicate  the  season.  In  the  first  scene,  tents 
in  the  background  should  give  a  suggestion  of  a  set 
tled  camp.  For  the  other  scenes,  nothing  is  really 
necessary  but  an  open  place  in  the  woodland.  As  the 
third  and  fourth  acts  call  for  winter  scenes,  the  in 
closing  background  should  either  be  of  bare  branches 
or  of  such  winter  trees  as  spruce,  fir,  tamarack. 

COSTUMES 

Radisson  and  Groseilliers.  Their  ordinary  dress  is 
that  of  the  scout  or  voyageur,  consisting  of  buckskin 
leggings  reaching  to  the  hip,  moccasins,  a  belted  blouse, 
a  fur  cap  with  flaps  that  can  be  drawn  down  over  the 
ears.  Their  dress  of  ceremony  is  made  by  adding  a 
gay  sash  and  an  embroidered  cloak ;  and  at  the  Friend 
ship  Feast  they  add  beads,  embroideries,  and  trinkets 
ad  lib.  They  wear  habitually  a  knife  in  a  sheath  and 
a  gay  pouch,  both  attached  to  the  belt. 

in 


112  RADISSON 

The  Wendats.  Their  dress  includes  long  leggings, 
reaching  to  the  hip,  and  fringed  on  the  outer  seam; 
deerskin  shirts  or  coats;  moccasins.  Their  hair  is 
parted  and  braided  in  two  braids,  falling  on  either  side 
of  the  face.  As  they  have  long  been  more  or  less  in 
contact  with  white  traders,  they  may  wear  blankets  or 
other  woven  material,  made  up  after  their  own  old 
fashion.  The  men  may  wear  feathers,  and  on  cere 
monial  occasions  would  certainly  do  so.  Also  em 
broidered  garments,  beads,  and  other  decorations. 

Sondaqua  as  chief,  and  afterward  Anahotaha,  wears 
a  cloak  made  of  brilliant  feathers  sewed  lightly  by  the 
stem  upon  a  piece  of  cloth  reaching  from  the  neck 
to  the  ground.  Their  other  garments,  fashioned  like 
those  of  the  other  members  of  the  tribe,  are  more 
elaborately  embroidered  with  dyed  grasses,  beads,  por 
cupine  quills,  etc.,  and  they  wear  necklaces  of  bears' 
claws.  Ihee,  as  medicine-man,  carries  a  rattle  made  of 
a  gourd  filled  with  small  stones,  and  a  headdress  made 
of  an  owl's  head  and  wings. 

Owera.  A  broadcloth  or  deerskin  dress,  fastened 
at  the  shoulders  and  embroidered  only  on  the  upper 
part,  which  is  folded  back,  and  on  the  sleeves,  which 
are  separate  from  the  dress;  deerskin  leggings  gartered 
below  the  knee;  moccasins;  an  outer  coat  coming  to 
the  middle  of  the  leg,  fringed  at  the  bottom;  a  gay 
sash,  with  fringed  ends,  fastened  behind;  a  beaded 
headband  crossing  her  forehead  and  fastened  behind. 
Her  hair  is  parted  and  braided  in  two  braids  which 
fall  over  her  breast  and  are  tied  at  the  ends  with  gay 
ribbons — except  in  the  mourning  scene.  Her  leggings 


HISTORICAL  NOTE  113 

are  fringed  at  the  bottom  where  they  meet  the  moc 
casin,  not  at  the  seam.  She  may  wear  a  fringed  kirtle 
and  short  coat  in  place  of  the  one-piece  dress,  to  vary 
the  costume. 

Other    Wendat    Women.      Like    Owera,    but    less 

gay. 

Weapons  of  the  Wendats.  Knives,  guns,  bows,  and 
arrows.  They  carry  the  arrows  in  quivers  worn  on 
the  back. 

The  Sioux.  The  Envoys  wear  ceremonial  dress, — 
long  leggings,  belted  shirts,  robes  or  cloaks  of  buffalo- 
skin,  porcupine-quill  breastplate,  necklaces  of  bear 
claws  or  of  bright  stones.  Their  hair  is  parted,  cut 
short  across  the  forehead,  the  rest  braided  on  each  side 
the  face.  Their  headdress  may  be  as  elaborate  as 
imagination  can  suggest, — buffalo  horns,  turkey  feath 
ers  forming  a  crown,  beaver-skin  rolls,  feathers  of  all 
colors.  The  leader  wears  a  black  war-bonnet  of 
feathers.  The  tail  of  fox  or  other  animal  is  fastened 
at  heel  of  moccasin  and  flaps  on  the  ground.  The 
young  men  of  the  Sioux  and  those  who  take  part  in 
the  games  are  naked  except  for  a  loin  cloth,  moccasins, 
and  headdress.  Their  weapons  are  hammers  and 
hatchets  made  of  sharp  stones  tied  to  a  stick,  and 
bows  and  arrows.  The  quiver  is  made  of  bark,  and 
hangs  from  the  shoulders.  Some  carry  shields  of 
buffalo-skin  stretched  upon  a  round  frame,  and  deco 
rated  with  feathers.  The  faces  and  bodies  of  the 
Sioux  are  painted. 

The  Crees.  Tight  leggings  reaching  to  the  hip; 
close  vest  or  shirt  fastened  with  thongs;  cap  of  fur, 


ii4  RADISSON 

with  tail  of  animal  for  ornament.  A  robe  or  mantle 
of  moose-skin  or  beaver  covers  the  whole.  Their  hair 
is  flowing,  not  braided.  They  wear  armlets  and  other 
ornaments  of  copper,  and  of  shells. 


DIRECTIONS  FOR  PAGEANT 

THE  dances  and  games  which  mark  the  ceremonies 
of  "  The  Feast  of  Friendship  "  can  be  extended  or 
curtailed  as  may  be  desired.  The  peculiar  and  mo 
notonous  "  one-two,  one-two,"  of  the  Indian  drum 
beat  should  be  studied  at  native  sources  to  insure  ac 
curacy  ;  and  so,  too,  the  dancing  step,  the  peculiar  bend 
ing  and  swaying  of  which  are  difficult  to  describe.  The 
pictures  of  the  "  Buffalo  Dance "  and  the  "  Bear 
Dance  "  in  Catlin's  North  American  Indian  Portfolio 
give  a  good  idea  of  the  postures  assumed  by  the 
dancers. 

For  music,  consult  Bulletin  45  and  53  of  the 
Bureau  of  American  Ethnology,  published  for  the 
Smithsonian  Institution  by  the  Government  Printing 
Office. 

A  concise  description  of  numerous  Indian  games  is 
given  in  Bulletin  30,  Part  i,  of  the  Bureau  of  Ameri 
can  Ethnology,  under  the  head  of  "  Games." 


THE   END 


Lily  A.  Long's  RADISSON:  The  Voyageur 

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A  highly  picturesque  play  in  four  acts  and  in  verse.  The 
central  figures  are  Radisson  the  redoubtable  voyageur  who 
explored  the  Upper  Mississippi,  his  brother-in-law  Groseil- 
liers,  Owera  the  daughter  of  an  Indian  chief  and  various 
other  Indians.  The  daring  resource  of  the  two  white  men  in 
the  fact  of  imminent  peril,  the  pathetic  love  of  Owera,  and 
above  all,  the  vivid  pictures  of  Indian  life,  the  women  grind 
ing  corn,  the  council,  dances,  feasting  and  famine  are  notable 
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involved. 

THREE  MODERN  PLAYS  FROM  THE  FRENCH 

Lemaitre's  THE  PARDON,  and  Lavedan's  PRINCE  D'AuREC, 
translated  by  Barrett  H.  Clark,  with  Donnay's  THE  OTHER 
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HISTORY  FOR  YOUNG  FOLK 

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and  Goff  by  the  officers  of  Charles  II  at  New  Haven  in  old 
Colony  days.  MRS.  MURRAY'S  DINNER  PARTY,  in  three  acts, 
is  a  lively  comedy  about  a  Patriot  hostess  and  British  Officers 
in  Revolutionary  Days.  In  the  four  SCENES  FROM  LINCOLN'S 
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preparing  lint  for  the  wounded,  a  visit  to  the  White  House  of 
an  important  delegation  from  New  York,  and  of  the  mother 
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upon,  the  mounting  of  all  these  little  plays  is  simplicity  itself, 
and  they  have  stood  the  test  of  frequent  school  performance. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


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Transcript. 

THE  SILVER  THREAD 

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By     GEORGE     MIDDLETON 

NOWADAYS 

A  Play  in  Three  Acts.    2nd  printing.    $1.00  net. 

A  comedy -drama  of  present-day  conditions.  It  deals  specifically  with 
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Wife  is  an  ironical  comedy  in  the  miasma  of  intrigue;  The  Cheat  of 
Pity  gives  an  intimate  study  of  marriage  and  the  relative  claims  of 
passion  with  pity  and  the  habit  of  life. 

Clayton  Hamilton,  in  an  extended  notice  in  The  Bookman:  "All  of 
these  little  pieces  are  admirable  in  technique:  they  are  soundly  con 
structed  and  written  in  natural  and  lucid  dialogue.  .  .  .  He  has 
sounded  to  the  depths  the  souls  of  those  eccentric  and  extraordinary 
women  whom  he  has  chosen  to  depict." 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COM  PAN  Y 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


CLARK'S  CONTINENTAL  DRAMA  OF  TO-DAY-Outline. 
for  Its  Study 

By  BARRETT  H.  CLARK,  Editor  of  and  Translator  of  two  of 
the  plays  in  "Three  Modern  French  Plays."  12mo. 
$1.35  net. 

Suggestions,  questions,  biographies,  and  bibliographies  for 
use  in  connection  with  the  study  of  some  of  the  more  import 
ant  plays  of  IBSEN,  B  TORN  SEN,  STRINDBERG,  TOLSTOY,  GORKY, 
TCHEKOFF,  ANDREYEFF,  HAUPTMANN,  SUDERMANN,  WEDEKIND, 

SCHNITZLER,  VON  HoFFMANSTHAL,  BfiCQUE,  L£  MA1TRE,  LAVE- 
DAN,     DONNAY,     MAETERLINCK,     R.OSTAND,     BRIEUX,     HERVIEU, 

GIACOSA,  D'ANNUNZIO,  ECHEGARAY,  and  GALDOS. 

In  half  a  dozen  or  less  pages  for  each  play,  Mr.  Clark 
tries  to  indicate,  in  a  way  suggestive  to  playwriters  and 
students,  how  the  skilled  dramatists  write  their  plays.  It  is 
intended  that  the  volume  shall  be  used  in  connection  with 
the  reading  of  the  plays  themselves,  but  it  also  has  an  inde 
pendent  interest  in  itself. 

Prof.  William  Lyon  Phelps  of  Yale:  ".  .  .  One  of  the  most  useful 
works  on  the  contemporary  drama.  .  .  .  Extremely  practical,  full 
of  valuable  hints  and  suggestions.  .  .  ." 

Providence  Journal:  "Of  undoubted  value.  ...  At  the  com 
pletion  of  a  study  of  the  plays  in  connection  with  the  'Outline'  one 
should  have  a  definite  knowledge  of  the  essentials  of  dramatic  tech 
nique  in  general,  and  of  the  modern  movement  in  particular." 

Sixth  Edition,  Enlarged  and  with  Portraits 

KALE'S    DRAMATIST'S    OF    TO-DAY 

By  PROF.  EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE,  JR.,  of  Union  College. 
ROSTAND,      HAUPTMANN,      SUDERMANN, 
PINERO,  SHAW,  PHILLIPS,  MAETERLINCK 
"A  Note    on    Standards    of    Criticism,"    "Our    Idea    of 

Tragedy,"  and  an  appendix  of  all  the  plays  of  each  author, 

with  dates  of  their  first  performance  or  publication,  complete 

the  volume.    $1.50  net. 

New  York  Evening  Post:  "It  is  not  often  nowadays  that  a  theatrical 
book  can  be  met  with  so  free  from  gush  and  mere  eulogy,  or  so 
weighted  by  common  sense  ...  an  excellent  chronological  appendix 
and  full  index  .  .  .  uncommonly  useful  for  reference." 

Brooklyn  Eagle:  "A  dramatic  critic  who  is  not  just  'busting^  himself 
with  Titanic  intellectualities,  but  who  is  a  readable  dramatic  critic. 
.  .  .  .  Mr.  Hale  is  a  modest  and  sensible,  as  well  as  an  acute  and 
sound  critic.  .  .  .  Most  people  will  be  surprised  and  delighted  with 
Mr.  Hale's  simplicity,  perspicuity  and  ingenuousness." 

HENRY    HOLT    AND    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW    YORK 


LD  21-100.. 


VB  31760 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


